


For family, queen and country

by daisybelle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondlock, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Skyfall, Q as the third Holmes-brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisybelle/pseuds/daisybelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Skyfall Q notices changes in Bond's behaviour. His brother Mycroft suggests John Watson for an undercover investigation. It turns out that James Bond and John Watson share a past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Long live the king

**Author's Note:**

> The artwork for this fic is made by the super-talented proprietyisnotapriority.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely Bravofiftyone.
> 
> All remaining mistakes are mine.

 

 

It is never really quiet in the technical section of MI6. The low electronic buzz of computers and other technical equipment usually creates a comforting blanket around the mind of Rutherford Holmes, better known in MI6 as Q (or Ford, by family members and a small number of friends), lulling him into deep concentration and calming him. Today it is different. Every periodic whirl reminds him how much time has passed since he followed Bond's instructions.

 

Morning is approaching, but right now he waits for a call, a signal to send a retrieval team to get Bond and M back to London. They are still alone. Tanner sits opposite him, dozing off, but occasionally awakening at the sound of his own snores. Mallory's last check-in was about an hour ago and Q wants to do something, wants to hack any surveillance camera to see, to know what's happening in the loneliness of Scotland. But the next usable satellite is still 37 minutes away, and since they aren't officially on a mission he can't just hack one. They are breaking enough rules right now, no need to alert other agencies to this.

 

The big screen shows the trace he has programmed for Bond in one corner. Below is the satellite, still somewhere over Siberia. The rest of the screen is covered in code, running a program to follow Silva’s traces as he follows Bond’s, trying to find Silva’s base or possible associates. Using the big screen is a little indulgence, not really necessary, but it gives a semblance of activity, while everything else is stalled until they hear from Bond. Q hates it, has always hated those times when he is reduced to waiting, because he can't see, because other parts of the world aren't covered with CCTV on each corner, where he is able to trace anybody, to trace Bond ...

 

He stops this train of thought immediately. He must really be exhausted when his usually singular brain decides to take the route of sentimentality. His attraction to Bond is nothing new, but it is usually the kind of sentiment that he reserves for the privacy of his own home, only there allowing his rigid emotional control to crumble and to give in to some of his more private indulgences. Like accessing the ‘Bond-cam’, watching the agent move with his own careless, dangerous elegance and pretends he has every right to call him his. Q knows it is not exactly healthy and he feels vaguely guilty, but working for MI6 and obsessing about one of its agents is not really conductive to a healthy relationship.

 

Two years ago, on the day of his recruitment – if you can call it so when offered a choice between MI6 or jail – he met Bond for the first time in a lift of all things, like a normal office romance. Those piercing blue eyes swept over his body, then clearly dismissed him. It had been an interesting experience to be judged with such a look by someone outside the family. Interesting in the sense of frightening. He had thought years in the Holmes Mansion under the scrutiny of two elder brothers and all-seeing parents meant that he was immune to the effects of this particular skill, but Bond's look felt like a firetrail on his skin and he had vaguely wondered what it might feel if this man was actually touching him, if he would burn alive.

 

He remembers that he immediately knew that this man was a spy (or, to be politically correct, an agent), but the thing that stuck in his mind was the short moment when their eyes met. Ice blue, calculating, assessing and then switching to indifferent neutrality. The quick changes and the shimmering intelligence left him dizzy and the rest of the day is still a bit of a blur. M threatening him. Not in so many words, but he had sensed the control and the determination to go as far as necessary. Tanner as the mediator, but with clear loyalties. His predecessor sitting on his right side watching him curiously and of course Mycroft radiating displeasure at the whole situation.

 

Two years and nothing has changed. Well, that isn't entirely correct. MI6 has proven to be far more interesting than Mycroft made government work look (and what Sherlock’s disdain implied). And more important by now he manages complete conversations with Bond and keeps them on track the whole time. Q allows himself a small sigh when he realises that he is still thinking about Bond.

 

It is probably time for another cup of tea. The young quartermaster is pretty sure that he won't get any sleep before his scheduled shift starts, but luckily he did not only inherit the Holmesian brain but also the insomniac streak. Staying awake for days is neither a problem nor uncommon. The kettle sounds unusually loud in the empty rooms. Ford fixes the tea in his favourite mug, watching the brown shapes created by the splash of milk.

 

He checks his watch. It is almost time for the satellite. Ford allows himself the luxury of taking his teacup to the workstation – something that would earn any of his technicians a stern look – and switches the satellite image to the big screen, reducing the code to a small window. The image still shows the North Sea when he hears two sets of footstep approaching. Of course, Mallory would return for the satellite feed. In silence they wait for the satellite to make its way to their goal, watching the scenery changing from water with the occasional boat and oilrig, to a coastline. The smoke is visible even without the enlargement, but the latter shows that the fight is over.

 

It doesn't show who won it, but Q sends a retrieval team anyway.

  

James Bond has seen too much in his life and grown too cynical to be affected by what normal people would call ‘wonders’ or ‘impressive’. Nature’s own beauty became boring after watching too many sunsets, risking his life in the shadow of the rain forest or falling down another ‘must-see’-waterfall. He also knows enough about loss – personal and otherwise –, has seen too many violent deaths and caused enough to ignore the circumstances. So when he sits in an icy church with the body of the woman who somehow managed to get too close to him, the cold beauty of another morning on earth brings nothing symbolic to him.

 

The emotional pain has faded, leaving an aching body. The wetness reaches his bones, adding to the emotional numbness. He is tired, so bloody tired and again death seems more like a welcoming friend than an enemy to outrun. Kincade has settled beside him, the warmth of his hand a stark contrast to the cold of the church’s floor, the cold of his soaking clothes and the drying blood on his hands.

 

Their combined breathing sounds too harsh in the silence, breaking the eternal peace of old walls and their stories. Just another dark moment in family history, a part of his chosen family lying in his arms. Dimly he is aware that he should go, get out of his clothes, alert London to the fact that he failed – once again. But despite the fact that every breath brings back an equilibrium he has maintained more or less since his parents’ death, there is a part of him that doesn’t want to return, that stayed on a beach and enjoyed death. 

 

The sound of approaching helicopters wakes him out of his drowsiness. The rotor blades cutting through the air, getting louder, a steady rhythm, like the wings of a bird on its way south. It seems like too much effort to go and check whether it is the expected back-up team from MI6. But years of training can’t be ignored. Still numb, he takes Silva’s gun and gently lies M down, before he approaches the windows. Past the landing helicopters he can see the fuming remains of his childhood-home. The new owners won’t be pleased. Kincade follows him as they watch the first men descend. By now 007 is sure that they belong to the good guys, but he only lowers his weapon when he recognises Tanner. Apparently his trained brain takes this as his cue to move. He leaves the church without a glance back, crosses the small graveyard with the tombstones of his parents and only stops to hand the gun to Tanner. He climbs in the helicopter, ignoring his aching body and the noise around him and hopes it will take him away as soon and as far as possible.

 

* * *

 

London is the same as ever. In fact James is almost appalled at how little things have changed. Surely, MI6 is still located in the underground and even if most of the faces look foreign to him, the bureaucrats still think he needs to be checked by the medical team. At least here is a familiar face. Dr. Andrew Scotsdale, who's been working for the service longer than Bond has; an institution like the old Q. Bond has seen the developing grey in dark hair, matching bushy brows above brown eyes, but the doctor’s body betrays no signs of age. Still very lean and fast on his feet, no insecurities, just firm confidence. The quiet assessment of steady hands brings back a normality that he had lost. Maybe he really is too old for this job.

 

He lets himself being manhandled, vaguely aware of probing fingers and applied bandages, contemplating the number of people that are still here since he enlisted, only to be interrupted by Andrew’s voice.

 

“So, it’s true then?” James looks up, surprised and trying to catch a glimpse at the doctor’s face. “Is she dead?” Andrew clarifies, probing with something sharp at James’ back.

 

Bond waits for the sting to dissolve before confirming with a simple ‘yes’, not ready to go into details. He still has to deliver an official report and that will be enough said about Skyfall. This lack of detail doesn’t seem to disturb the doctor, for he continues in a conversational tone.

 

“I knew him. Silva, I mean. We started at the same time. He was a good agent.”

 

Bond is certainly not someone who sticks to the unwritten rules of social niceties, but it seems an odd sort of statement. Again he searches Andrew’s expression, and is somewhat startled by the apologetic look.

 

Apparently it is also the cue for Andrew to elaborate, moving in front of Bond and gesturing vaguely to his surroundings.

 

“It sometimes feels as if I’ve been here for centuries. So many things have changed. New agents, new M, new policies, even Q-branch is different. Now everything is about data security and data leaks and computer protocol. Sometimes I really miss the old days, when agents were more than hired guns and exchangeable items. When they made a difference.”

 

There is a bitterness in the doctor’s voice that is unexpected, but Bond isn’t a good caregiver at the best of times and certainly not at the moment. He goes for humour, hoping to elevate the slight tension in the room.

 

“I think that should be my speech.”

 

It is only partly a success. Andrew sighs and then crosses the room to get clean clothes for Bond.

           

“Oh, ignore me. A meeting with the past always makes me sentimental. You are good to go.”

 

“You sure everything is alright?” Bond puts on the dry shirt, observing the doctor.

 

“Yes, yes, I just never thought I would outlive Silva twice.”

 

* * *

 

The debriefing follows strict protocol. Q and Tanner are there and another suit which Bond automatically allocates to the psychology department. He is declared unfit for active duty and spends his free time house hunting. One of the perks of the job is the paycheck, and since the British Crown invested the money from his death quite sensibly, he can afford a nice penthouse with a great view. Unfortunately nothing feels right; he can’t even settle down in a hotel for long and annoys Eve by changing his address every few days.

 

He is not surprised that he has to answer to an informal inquiry. Just the Prime Minister, M, himself and one man he recognises as head of MI5. However, he is surprised when he learns the official version of events. Somehow the Prime Minister has managed to put the blame on MI5 for their failing to see the potential for domestic terrorism. Sharing a small smile with M he just enjoys the sharp questioning of the other man, glad that they won’t be the media target for the next few days.


	2. There is no royal road

_Three months later_

 

“Where are they going?”

 

Bond’s voice is distorted by static and over-modulation, but Q can just about resist the urge to take over the controls. He is only here to supervise, training his people to do his job, ready for when MI6 needs to replace him. Ford doesn’t think about the implications, after all that’s more or less how he got promoted. And since it is the sensible thing to do – and being sensible was a serious lesson from Mycroft – he just makes a note about further experimentation, to make the equipment less failure-prone.

 

It is almost a relief to monitor his young tech instead of doing the job himself. First, it is not his job to worry about Bond, but about Brian, and second, if he gets distracted by worrying about Bond, at least somebody else will still have Bond’s back. He listens to Brian’s confident answer, aided by the fact that Bond is not the first agent he has led on a mission. Something in Bond’s responses irritate him, but he can’t put his fingers on it. Surprisingly this mission is still going more or less as planned, which probably explains why Ford is still able to concentrate on observing Brian. As can M and Tanner.

 

They hadn’t bothered watching Brian’s first attempts with 004 and 009, but those two agents are new enough to follow orders without questioning them. Bond, on the other hand, stopped blindly following orders long ago (if he ever did). Q is not sure if it is a natural tendency for insubordination or just an after-effect of his early days in the field, when technology wasn’t this advanced and he had to make his own choices. Whatever the reason Q is pretty sure that everybody in the room is aware that this character streak is one of the reasons why he is the longest-serving field agent. Experience and a talent for resurrection – and Q is especially grateful for the latter.

 

The sudden sound of gunshots ends his reflections and changes the atmosphere in the room immediately. Q can hear Bond’s exhalations, the little noises of fabric rustling over the mic, so the agent is still moving. Bond doesn’t say anything, probably to not betray his position, but the lack of feedback makes him nervous. They only have blurry images from an abandoned satellite not quite in place to cover Bond’s progress, but until now the lagging hasn’t been a problem.

 

“Get us a clearer image.” Tanner orders Malin, the other young technician responsible for the mission. Although Tanner sounds calm, a new edge has entered his voice and Q sees the frightened look on Malin’s face. He is already one step nearer his console when his brain catches up. ‘It’s not your mission. It’s not your mission.’ The fast typing from Malin’s station enables him to shift his attention to Brian. He notices a bead of sweat, but otherwise the man is calm, asking for Bond’s status when there is a break in the firing.

 

Bond’s distinct voice is even more distorted, but more worrisome is the swearing. Q has listened to so many of Bond’s missions that the slight uneasiness he had felt the whole time instantly rings his alarm bells. Bond doesn’t swear. He uses ‘bloody’ and ‘fucking’ for emphasis, but usually sarcasm and black humour are his way of dealing with tight situations. There is something completely wrong with Bond and this time Ford doesn’t stop, he takes over, and gets the satellite under his control. He senses more than he sees Malin’s confusion and Tanner’s curious look, but pays no attention to them. Having established a stable access he transfers the control back, checking the prepared intel for this mission again.

 

One ear still on the ongoing transmission, he scans the pages, trying to sort what might be important in the next moments. There are still gunshots in the background, but also the sound of the engine and screeching wheels of Bond’s car. On the screen he sees Bond zigzagging through narrow streets, not always in time to avoid hitting obstacles.

 

“Still in pursuit. Can you make out a specific goal? Any shortcuts?”

 

A rather normal status report, but Q doesn’t allow himself to relax, even though it seems a relatively stable situation at the moment. Tanner has given up any pretence of observing. He leans now over  Brian’s console studying a map, following a possible route. Neither Tanner nor Brian answer immediately and Q gives up any pretence he had left, and opens the map. By now, he has their target's details memorised – ah, yes, a villa in the suburbs, bought under an alias and equipped with a helicopter landing spot.

 

“Anybody there? Any feedback would be welcome?”

 

Bond’s voice is the auditory example of grand irritation and impatience, somehow alerting everybody in the room to give some kind of advice. Another round of quite creative expletives that prove the man’s past in the Royal Navy, gives them more time, but Brian’s hesitant “Maybe they are …” is immediately interrupted by Bond.

           

“Maybe? Fuck, get me Q! I need someone who knows what he's doing!”

 

He knows it is totally inappropriate to bathe in the sense of smug pride at being personally requested (and complimented) by Bond and so he tries to push his feelings aside and focuses on 007. Later, he will examine the flush of emotions that had threatened to swallow him, once he has assured that the agent is safe back in England.

 

“Suburbs, southsouthwest. A private villa. Take the next left and follow it for 1.3 miles.”

 

Q is glad that his voice sounds unaffected and calm. He searches for a blueprint of the villa, while steering Bond through tiny alleys and backyards. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Brian looking defeated, but some details on the blueprint catch his attention. He informs Bond of a possible hidden room and starts hacking the security cameras of the estate, securing further video coverage of their mission. He works hand in hand with Bond now and of course he would deny it, but this, this giving input and watching 007 work with it, improvising with what is on hand for the mission, this has quickly become his favourite part of the job. If only there weren’t people shooting at Bond, and a worrying tendency towards slower than normal responses from the agent. At least the verbal feedback has returned to normal, but Q can’t help the concern growing inside of him.

 

Slowly, very slowly the tension leaves the room, and the relief is almost audible when Bond climbs into the helicopter to come home. The quartermaster knows the agent should be secure and cuts the audio feed. But just to be on the safe side and to calm the nagging worry, Q asks Malin to follow the video until Bond is back in London. With one last look at the screen, he follows Tanner and Brian to M’s office.

 

* * *

 

 

Neither Rutherford nor Sherlock had ever understood how Mycroft could stand the utter silence of the Diogenes Club. Sherlock had always needed the sound of the city, while Ford preferred the calming sound of his machines. But here he can’t hear anything from outside the heavily insulated windows, or from the other rooms. Hell, if he has to wait any longer he will start feeling guilty about the tiny clink of his tea cup against the matching saucer, or the low rustle when he drags his feet over the plush carpet.

 

He deliberately chooses the chair pointing to the door. If he can’t hear anything, at least he wants to see some signs of life. And working for MI6 and the Double-O section has obviously rubbed off.  Ford prefers to have a wall against his back and any access points in his viewing range. Which is certainly the only reason why he catches the look of worried surprise on his brother’s face, wondering vaguely if the staff of the Diogenes hadn’t informed his brother of someone waiting for him. He doesn’t voice this thought though, just tries to calm Mycroft’s concern.

 

“No, I haven’t heard anything.”

 

Nothing since the last scheduled contact between Sherlock and one of his brothers anyway. Ford avoids thinking too closely about Sherlock’s ‘mission’. In his daily work he sees too many plans going horribly wrong, and he needs to be able to sleep. Not that he sleeps that much, but sometimes even they have to submit to the needs of their bodies and starting worrying about things he can’t change certainly don’t help stopping his brain activity. That’s why he tries to keep the distractions at a minor level. Mycroft accepts the information as he always does, with a calm nod and a questioning raise of an eyebrow while entering the room completely and closing the door behind him. Ford sighs. He has considered his options for a long time and still isn’t nearer to any solution.

 

“I need your help.” Q admits. Mycroft’s expression changes to open curiosity. Well, it's open enough if you grew up with him. And it is annoying. They both know that on paper, Q is the one with greater resources at hand. But Mycroft certainly has access to means Ford doesn’t want to think about.

 

“One of the agents' behaviour has changed in the past three months.”

 

Mycroft has by now crossed the room to the alcohol trolley, pouring himself a whiskey. He stops mid-sip to ask a rather stupid question.

 

“And why do you have such an interest in this man?”

 

Ford resists the urge to snort at his brother, and settles for an annoyed glance. As if Mycroft doesn’t know, or at least suspect. Q has been the little brother for too long not to despise Mycroft and Sherlock's easy reading of him. The only difference between the brothers is that Mycroft still acts as if he is oblivious to it. His glare is met with a slight acknowledging tilt of his brother’s head.

 

“So what do you expect me to do?”

 

The problem is, Ford doesn’t know. He has already tried to speak with M and Tanner, but without admitting that Q has been stalking one of the agents secretly and obsessively since he first saw him, he has no proof. Everybody else seems to think that the changes in Bond’s behaviour are merely the result of grief and last but not least, Q doesn’t really want to create difficulties for Bond.

 

“I’m not sure there is anything you can do, but I’m running out of ideas. All of my colleagues seem to think he is perfectly fine, but I know that something is wrong. I just know it, Mycroft, and it’s damn frustrating.”

 

Mycroft has returned to him, standing in front of him and looking down with the annoying countenance of the elder sibling.

 

“Maybe you need an outside opinion?”

 

It is not really voiced as a question and it irritates him to no end.

 

“I thought I was getting one? Or are you suggesting enlisting one of your people to spy on a spy?”

 

Mycroft smiles slightly and it doesn’t help to stop Ford’s irritation because it is Mycroft’s ‘My little brother is adorable’-smile.

 

“I wasn’t thinking of one of my agents. I was thinking of John.”

 

The suggestion takes Ford by surprise, but there aren’t so many Johns he and his brother are both acquainted with.

 

“John? He is not an agent.”

 

His objection is met with a neat explanation that leaves Ford wondering exactly how long Mycroft has planned to install John at MI6.

 

“But he is an army surgeon, experienced in trauma care. He also has a pretty high security clearance since he's already worked for the MOD. And don’t forget that Sherlock valued John’s observations very much. Besides, it would give the man something to do while Sherlock plays dead.”

 

Ford thinks of the last time he had been at Baker Street. John hadn’t look too well, the flat in some ways still the messy assembly of Sherlock’s clutter, but forced in the background by John’s military habits. It had been an awkward afternoon, but that was normal now, every visit at Baker Street was awkward. John was never in a talkative mood, and Ford was just glad that he witnessed John consuming at least some food. It had fallen to Ford to check regularly on the doctor, because Mycroft’s only attempt at talking to John had been met by a fist and the door in his face.

 

“I'll talk to him.”

 

“Appeal to his sense of duty.”


	3. No good deed

"I know I said I wanted those items back, but they're no use if they're in pieces. Even if you've got all pieces."

 

Despite sitting in medical and enduring the ministrations of one of those young new doctors MI6 has hired, Bond can't help but smile a little. It's always far too amusing to see Q trying to tell him off about the condition of his equipment. The old Q had never complained so much when Bond's more creative use of the toys rendered them useless. And he never wanted them back.

 

"Maybe you should work on their durability", he suggests.

 

An annoyed huff is Q's only reaction while he waits for the doctor to remove another part of the Geiger counter implant from Bond's left arm. Bond is pretty sure that the quartermaster secretly enjoys their confrontations as much as he does. After all, he could always send one his minions to collect the props. But any more verbal response by either of them is interrupted by the arrival of Eve and a surprisingly familiar man. A man he hasn’t seen in ages and who looks thinner and older than he should.

 

Nobody would accuse Bond of being sentimental; he knows that the same psychologists that declare him fit for duty wouldn't be too happy if he was out on the street for somebody else. There is not much left that affects him; years in the front line will do this to a man. And with the last M gone it sometimes seem as if the only thing that keeps him going is loyalty. Loyalty to England, to the crown.

 

But somewhere deep hidden there is a small room for fond memories, for shared laughs from a childhood so long gone it seems like a different life. Two blond boys, one with eyes as blue as the ocean and the other the blue of an icecold winter morning, laughing about some silly ball game. Two men watching them, Kincade and Hamish Watson, John's grandfather.

 

John visiting his grandfather were the highlights of happy summer days. Kincade taught them how to fish, how to hunt, how to shoot. After his parents’ death they stayed in contact, James became a regular guest in the Watson home. Harry Watson was the first girl he kissed (and who slapped him afterwards), John Watson the first boy (no slapping, but embarrassed silence for some hours).

 

On his first leave from the Navy, when John was still a medical student in Bart's, they discovered the delicious feel of a muscular chest instead of soft breasts against a stubbled face, a calloused hand around their cocks and finally two cocks sliding together till the world collapsed around them. The next morning they had been too hung over to care about sexual identity crises and when the occasion arose again they both had learned that life was too short to be embarrassed about something quite enjoyable.

  
John had joined the army, Afghanistan, and Bond already working for MI6 had met him there, more accidentally than intended but nevertheless they had spent the entire weekend with two enthusiastic peace corps members in a hotel room in Kabul. The last thing he had heard was gunshot wound, slim chances of survival due to an infection. They had sent Bond to South America, a joint mission with the CIA, and after burning a whole village he hadn’t stayed long enough to count the dead. The smell of burning flesh had stayed with him for a long time and he hadn’t dared to check on John Watson. John Watson who saved people’s lives and didn’t burn them, who might be by now another ghost from a long-forgotten past. And then came Turkey and Ronson's death and suddenly he had been busy not dying and being dead on a beach on the Philippines.

 

So seeing John Watson again is indeed a pleasant surprise despite how the other man looks. And from the tentative smile the feeling is mutual.

 

"John Watson? What are you doing here?"

 

“You know me. Always looking for some light desk work, so I thought I’d give espionage a try.” John grins, and his smile soothes the signs of age and something darker on his face, bringing back the small boy in a Scottish field for a moment. James wants to ask what had happened, but is derailed by John’s casual greeting of Q.

 

“Hello Ford!”

 

Bond and Eve share a surprised look. Neither of them had known Q's real name and if Bond judges Moneypenny's look right – and he is pretty sure he does – neither has ever thought about it. Letters and numbers as referentials are ingrained very quickly in MI6, especially since most people working here have a set of false identities at hand. But Bond is pretty sure Ford is a real name, he saw the quartermaster’s unhappy fidgeting.

 

"You know him."

 

John's short 'yes' is a clear sign that any further interrogation wouldn't be welcome. Which is something James learned to ignore, but again his attempt at interrogation is interrupted. His doctor who had silently worked on his arm the whole time chooses this moment to join the conversation.

 

"I'm sorry 007, but I need to sedate you. There is no way I can get the last pieces out of your body without some severe cuts."

 

This gets him the attention of the whole room, everybody staring at the area the doctor is indicating. Bond frowns, carefully probing at the area under the unhappy eyes of the medical professionals in the room. He's had worse wounds. The pain is bearable, the decision easy.

 

"No. No, let Dr. Watson take a look at it. He's very good with his hands."

 

And Bond is not very good at being sedated.

 

"James, the closest thing to operating I have done in the last few months are some stitches. If he can't do anything, I doubt there is anything I could do."

 

John’s voice is odd when he utters those words, but it doesn’t contain the steel of before when he tried to stop further questioning, so James chooses to interpret them as token protest.

 

"John, just take a look. And if you tell me I need to be completely helpless and blissed out for your fingers to do your magic, well. I remember the last time I was at your mercy."

 

He sees the flash of amusement in those dark blue eyes and a fine blush appearing as John approaches him. Despite his words, John's examination is as secure as he remembers. And he is not surprised when the ex-army-surgeon announces that he will take the pieces out without any real surgery. The confident demands for the instruments stop any complaints by the other doctor who silently assists.

 

It's Eve who finally asks the question that lingers in the room since John entered it.

 

"So, Dr. Watson, how do you know Bond?

 

John looks up and catches his eyes. The message is clear: your decision.

 

His decision. There was never any need to think about what would happen if someone from his life before the secret service met someone from MI6. He has no one listed as next of kin, no one to inform about his death. He doubts John knew about his being MIA, believed dead. They had both known that Kabul could be the last time they saw each other. It was clear from the way they parted, from the way they said good bye. Both raised to do their duties, both knowing that their lives could end any day.

 

He finds that he doesn’t want to share their childhood memories with MI6, spoiling the time of innocence by revealing at the place where secrets are held. So he settles for a half-truth, mouths ‘Kabul’ and sees the confirmation in the batting of John’s eyelids, before the doctor starts the story of running into Bond on his leave.

 

John still has a talent to spin a tale and Bond hears Eve’s laughter and the snort of the other doctor and can’t hide his smile at John’s outrageous tales. Only the quartermaster is oddly silent when he collects the pieces John carefully extracts from his skin.

 

* * *

 

 

Ford listens to the banter between John, James and Eve. It doesn’t take a genius to understand the innuendo James is employing, and the body language of John Watson. Despite John’s explanations they’ve known each other longer, long and well enough to agree silently to hide this fact. It wakes Ford’s curiosity, a nice antidote to the jealousy. The pain in his chest is an old friend by now, not as sharp as it is at Bond’s more hands on approaches to obtaining intel, but enough to hate the fact that at some point in their past John Watson and James Bond shared bodily fluids. And definitely not as an exchange for some kind of information.

 

Everything indicates that those encounters were years ago, Kabul was probably the last time they had seen each other. But jealousy is seldom rational and he looks for a way to disappear, to leave the medical department (to check Bond’s file for when he was in Kabul), although he was the one that insisted on staying through the whole procedure.

 

He sees John’s hands touch James naked arm and wants to separate them. Although John’s touch is entirely professional, he has seen the same hands caress and work on his brother. Dutifully he stands beside the pair, holding the bowl to collect more pieces of the miniature Geiger counter, and suppresses a flinch every time one of John’s instruments breaks the skin.

 

Eve is still trying to get more details of the relationship between the two men, adding her own share of ambiguous statements to the easy chatter, keeping it light-hearted. Q is thankful for her presence, her ability to entertain the room, so his sudden silence goes unnoticed. He is not so much interested in the details of any former encounter – if he wanted he could come up with some fantastic scenarios, but there are still the essential questions. Did Bond sleep regularly with men outside professional assignments? Was John Watson his type (apparently he had no type for women except for willing)? Were they inclined to do it again? And most importantly: Did Mycroft know any of this?


	4. A sore spot

The plane lands with a gentle thud and Bond hears the soft rustle of fabric as the other passengers start to move and gather their belongings. He takes a last sip from his martini, ignoring the movement around him, ignoring them as he has done the whole flight. Instead his mind lingers on the past days, on the series of almosts, of his errors. He has been too slow and now a young woman is dead and the worst part is that he knows, he simply knows that he would have saved her only a few years ago. Instead he sits in a normal airline plane and is thankful for the dark material of his shirt and trousers and the dimmed light, so nobody notices the blood stains on his clothing.

 

The dried blood scratches over his skin and usually he would have used the first opportunity to clean himself, but today he feels totally pathetic and needs the irritation of his skin to realise that he is still alive. That despite how close it was he has survived another mission. And the cynic in him knows that this still counts as successful mission because he has the information MI6 wanted. The alcohol doesn’t burn the taste of self-loathing. It only helps him to avoid the one question he's probably already ducked too long: Is he too old?

 

Finally, after everybody else has left the plane, Bond follows the mass of enthusiastic tourists and tired business men. He is greeted by the sight of a black Jag, a driver is standing next to it. The sigh is only internal but heartfelt. He is really not in the mood for a knowing look from someone younger, or the judgment of someone higher in the food chain. All he wants right now is a warm shower, more alcohol and a good night’s sleep. He remembers his injuries a moment too late, and almost stops because of the sting. Okay, maybe some stitching up before the shower and the sleep.

 

He walks straight past the car and ignores the frantic attempts of the driver to get his attention. Instead he wanders through the airport, is waved through security and gets himself a cab. It’s a silent ride through London, the cabbie either not one of the chatty drivers, or sensing his passenger's mood. And Bond allows the strange calmness of a rainy night in London to wash over him.

 

He ends up in Baker Street, home of the new MI6 Doctor John Watson. And also home of the childhood friend, the brother in arms from Afghanistan, the lover from Kabul. The agent lights a cigarette and stares up at the window. He had fleetingly wondered whether he should disturb John, but it seems the doctor’s night is already disturbed. Behind the curtains there is a light, and he recognises the moving silhouette as his friend. James takes another drag, inhaling slowly before he throws the cigarette away and rings the bell. 

 

John doesn’t even seem surprised at Bond's appearance. He's more resigned, as he looks Bond over and herds him into the kitchen. Bond is pushed onto the chair with the best illumination, a plate and a mug removed from the side of the table. Bond adjusts the chair a little bit to have the kitchen window in sight, before he turns his attention back to John. It is interesting watching the other man here, in his own home, without any military associations.

 

Medical supplies are laid out methodically; hands are washed as thoroughly as always. Bond spots the second bottle of disinfectant soap and the paper towels, and he is not surprised that John finds his instruments without looking. He has done this before, in this exact spot. He remembers his unvoiced question from their first encounter at MI6: What had happened to John? His curiosity almost gets the better of him, but his reluctance to disturb the silence is even greater. He can always ask later, when John doesn’t seem as lost in another world.

 

The doctor’s hands carefully get rid of his clothes, a symphony of hisses and apologetic touches, ending with a sigh on the doctor’s part that tells the agent that the doctor would have preferred a more professional setting. The lack of verbalization once again makes it clear that he is not the first patient to be seen in this kitchen, and obviously not the first to prefer John’s hands to those of an unknown medical professional.

 

It is also evident in the progress of his treatment. The fingers linger too long over scarred skin and there is sadness in John’s eyes that he hasn’t seen before. He had caught glimpses of it, when Bond had used his free time to sit around in medical and banter with John, but now in the kitchen with the smell of disinfectant and the stinging of freshly cleaned wounds, Bond really wonders what happened. It’s rare for him to care, but John has been such an essential part of his past, even if they only had in-between moments for their friendship in the last years.

 

He still hesitates to bring the subject up, searching for the right words; but he is interrupted as

the doctor’s fingers trace along his cheekbone and the doctor’s mouth slowly descends on his. The kiss is as aggressive as the fingers are not, and James feels his body respond, but he stays still, allowing the kiss but not reciprocating.

 

When John lifts his head, the mood has changed, gone is the silent sadness, hidden behind desperate arousal. A smile lingers around the slightly reddened lips.

 

“Never thought you would care.” A thumb caresses his lower lip, before John once again closes the distance between them.  “I know it’s you James”, he murmurs in James’ mouth.

 

The next kiss is not as one-sided. In fact, it’s a mutually enjoyable experience. James lets his control slip, moving his lips, opening them at the touch of a tongue before turning the tables. The kiss grows heated and without losing the contact, James stands and starts walking them in the direction where the bedroom must be.

 

* * *

 

James lies awake and watches the lights of the cars chasing each other on the ceiling. Beside him, he hears John’s deep breaths and wishes he could sleep just as soundly. But the strange environment and the sex keep him awake. Not the sex itself, it isn’t the first time John and he have fucked, but the sentiment behind it. John wasn’t entirely himself and Bond, well, he was – is – in his post-mission depression. Or something worse. They shouldn’t have fucked. They should have had a beer and a talk. Or maybe a beer in silence.

 

Suddenly the awkwardness of the situation becomes too much. Carefully he moves to get out of bed, trying to locate his clothes in the rumpled mess on the floor. He is almost out of the door when John’s sleep-muddled voice stops him.

 

“James?”

 

John’s voice is tinted with sleepy confusion and Bond stays still, indecisive. He watches John’s movement as the other man slowly blinks himself awake, leaning on his arm to assess him.

 

“You should sleep, not wander around.” 

 

“Should I?”

 

It’s certainly not the most eloquent of all answers, but it is in the middle of the night, and he really should get some sleep. He is just unsure where.

 

“Yes. Don’t make me worry about you. And stop worrying about us. Nothing has changed. We are still James and John.”

 

James stares at his friend, tries to read John’s face in the darkness. He can’t see anything, has to rely on his other senses and since when is choosing a bed partner such a difficult decision?

 

“James and John, you say?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Who occasionally fuck.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

He doesn’t think it is this easy. Hell, he knows it isn’t this easy. Bond is a professional in a world of grey where nuances decide.

 

“Who were you thinking of? In the kitchen?”

 

He hears John sigh. “Will you come back to bed if I tell you?”

 

He weighs this up against everything else. But in the end, it is the exhaustion that settles it. He throws his clothes back on the floor and scrambles back into the bed, lying on his side facing John. Tiredness washes over his body and he wants nothing more to let loose, but his mind is still whirling through the past hours.

 

“Who was it?”

 

From close up he can identify the emotions on John’s face. Grief, anger, hurt, pain. John’s deep breath ghosts over his face.

 

“You probably never heard of Sherlock Holmes?”

 

“No.” James confirms.

 

“He was a consulting detective, the only one in the world”, a sad smile lingers at John’s mouth. “He was brilliant, could tell you your life story with one glance.”

 

James has some idea where this conversation is heading, everything boyish about John has disappeared and he seemed more broken than he has ever seen him.

 

“Was?”

 

“Was.” John confirms. “He jumped from the roof of Bart’s last June.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

They are both silent. John clearly lost in thought, James unsure what to say. He senses that there is more, but he is not good at emotional stuff and all his life he has shied away from grief.

 

“The worst part is, I don’t get it. I don’t understand why he would do this.” John’s voice is choked. “Yes, the newspapers said he was a fraud, but how could he believe … how could he think I …” John’s voice breaks and James watches helpless as tears run over his face. It’s no conscious decision on his part but he pulls John close, holding him in a tight embrace, stroking his back while sobs shaking his friend’s body.

 

It takes a while for John to calm down and James suspects this is the first time John actually let go of his control. He loosens his grip and reaches for the tissues on the night stand. John’s eyes are tear-dimmed and he has angry blotches on his face but he actually looks better. He blows his nose and the sound is so profane that James has to smile a bit. He receives a watery smile in return and an inquiring look, before John asks:

 

“What is your reason?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You came to me, in the middle of the night, instead of going to MI6. Why?”

 

He is unsure how to answer this, but John waits patiently.

 

“I didn’t want to feel old.”

 

* * *

 

 

James wakes up alone the next morning. Judging from the light it is late in the morning and he hears noises from the kitchen. Grabbing his boxers he notices that the room seems slightly out of place for John before he leaves.

 

Nothing in the kitchen reminds him of the make-shift surgery from the previous evening. Not even John who openly smiles at him, the demons of the night obviously forgotten. Bond takes the offered plate and settles down at the table, regarding the open newspaper.

 

“Really John, you are still trying to solve crosswords?”

 

He hears the laughter in John’s answer: “Shut up, old man, and drink your tea.” 


	5. Desperate times

It is much too early. Much too early to face a new day, much too early to face a new week, much too early to deal with another near-death experience for Bond. The short glimpse of Bond getting on the plane on Friday was all he had allowed himself for the whole weekend, to confirm that 007 was still alive despite the best attempts of some rather well equipped terrorists. It hadn’t been on his watch. Again he'd simply been there to observe, and this time Bond hadn’t asked for him, although he had been in some pretty tight places. The need to do something, to interfere, to take over had been almost overwhelming, but his self-control had held.

 

Objectively the mission had been a success. A potential terror base destroyed, all information retrieved; no casualties for Her Majesty, although one dead agent for the French DGSE, and Brian had been able to deal with one of the most unpredictable agents of MI6. Even his own private mission could be called a success. Since John’s arrival Bond seemed more stable, a little bit forthcoming, even spending time at MI6 between missions. No swearing, only dark irony.

 

But Q doesn’t feel like celebrating. The whole weekend was a failed attempt to get over the feeling of loss when Bond hadn’t asked for him. The rational part of himself – which happily still exists – had argued with his emotional half, but despite knowing that this is ridiculous, that he loses his head, his control over an agent that won’t return his feelings, he couldn’t get rid of those treacherous emotions. He had barely slept during the weekend, to be precise he had barely slept the whole week and now he is exhausted and feels much too vulnerable to face a new day at the office.

 

Ford drags himself up the stairs from the tube, having dismissed the MI6-provided transport in the vain hope that the motion would wake him up. Instead he still feels the urge to curl up and just sleep. (Although that hasn’t worked for him in a long time.) And why are there so many other people in his way? It seems his only hope of somehow staying ahead of the game is coffee. The coffee shop is too loud for his taste, but the smell of caffeine alone elevates his alertness, although not his mood.

 

He senses the CCTV cameras following him and is tempted to wave at his brother to show him everything is all right, but it is too much effort right now, and when he thinks about it, waving at Mycroft is certainly a sign that nothing is all right. God, he only hopes there won’t be any major catastrophes today, he is definitely far from fit. It is probably best if he sticks to his paperwork today. Paperwork shouldn’t cause any damage. To be on the safe side he resolves to only hand it in after he's had some decent hours of sleep.

 

Ford is not the first to arrive in Q branch, but the calmness before the regular workday still lingers. He prefers to be in early, to get things done before agents and staff meetings demand his time. He convinces himself that looking into Bond’s file is his duty, to see how Brian had been evaluated by the agent, but Bond hasn’t filed his report yet. The new wave of anxiety is soothed by the report from the young agent in training who had been assigned to pick Bond up. Apparently Bond had decided to see his personal doctor first.

 

Q firmly tells himself that the little sting of jealousy is childish. He knows John and James have known each other for a long time (although neither admits it) and he is pretty sure that Bond would go to a hospital or medical branch if he was seriously hurt. John is a good doctor, after all he was the only one allowed to treat Sherlock, and Sherlock was even worse as a patient than Bond. But again his rational side loses the battle. Despite knowing all this he is envious of the easy friendship between the two men, the deep bond despite being out of touch for some time. The fact that John is the person James Bond chooses to see after a mission.

 

Annoyed by the new addition to his emotional turmoil, Q goes for another coffee. Obviously he is still not awake enough if he can’t handle his feelings. This really promises to be a very long day. With a new coffee and new resolution he returns into his office, closes Bond’s file, and does the paperwork he is supposed to be doing. It is not as easy going as he would wish, but when he emerges from his windowless cubicle an hour later he can congratulate himself on only being distracted by thoughts of Bond about every ten minutes. Which is slightly worse than his average, but still acceptable.

 

He is contemplating switching his choice of caffeinated beverage to tea, when Bond and Watson enter Q branch. Him glancing up at the sound of the door is probably the first normal thing he does today and he immediately wishes he hasn’t. Wishes Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s lessons hadn’t worked, that it was possible to unsee things, that closing his eyes fast enough would erase all the little details that sprang out to him. James Bond and John Watson had sex. This morning. In the shower if he is any judge (and he is). After they spent the weekend together (in bed).

 

Belately he becomes aware that closed eyes might attract the attention of a trained agent and an experienced medical officer. He is almost afraid to open them, afraid of what he will see again. Slowly his eyelids rise and every deduction slices a hole in his chest. The slightly rumpled shirts, a mark barely visible above the collar, a certain softness around the eyes, the same smell. He feels like bleeding internally and desperately tries to put on a mask of indifference. 

 

He lifts his head slightly to regain the appearance of normality but it seems a bit too late, because both of them look at him worriedly. Why did they train agents to notice things? And why did Sherlock train John to see things? Or was it the NHS? Maybe it’s the doctor-patient-thing? John is a good doctor, has been trained by the best. Why should Sherlock get all the credit? Maybe Bond rubbed off on him. They knew each other for long enough. Intimately.

 

Another slice through his heart. It stings, so he is still alive. He shakes his head, willing his brain to stop rambling. Since when is he so bad at self-control? Ford sees a pair of hands on reaching for him, John’s, and he forces himself to look into the doctor’s worried eyes.

 

“You alright?”

 

Q sees the gaze of the doctor flickering upon his body, assessing him.

 

“Yeah.” He is astonished that he can speak; maybe he can try a lie. “Too much caffeine on not enough sleep and food.”

 

Ford catches the uncertainty in John’s gaze and attempts a small smile.

 

“It’s stupid, I know.”

 

“I thought you were cleverer than Sherlock about that!” Ford hears the sigh and something else that’s too low to catch. “Come on, let’s get you some food in the cafeteria.”

 

“That’s not necessary, I have someth…”

 

“Either the cafeteria or I get M to send you home.” The questioning eyebrow is totally unnecessary and they both know it. 

 

He is steered out of Q branch, and when he studies John’s reflection in the elevator doors he thinks it is bearable when he does not see them together.

   

* * *

 

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

John’s question is unexpected. They’ve both been sitting here in silence, John sipping on his tea while Ford silently empties the plate the doctor had put in front of him. He doesn’t really taste anything, but the slow fill of his stomach takes away some of the acid from the coffee.

 

For a moment Ford thinks about playing dumb, but the honest worry he can read in John’s face stops him. It’s not John’s fault that Ford has fallen hard for Bond, and it’s not John’s fault that he has a past with the agent. And it is also certainly not John’s fault that they had met again. Ford is pretty sure he can blame Mycroft for the latter. Or maybe Sherlock.

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

The warmth in John’s eyes threatens to break through his already weak defences, but contrary to the Holmes family John knows something about tact and respecting boundaries. Although the switch of topic still comes as a slight surprise.

 

“So, why am I really here? Just some elaborate scheme of Mycroft to keep me occupied or is there something you didn’t tell me?”

 

Ah yes, the proof that John Watson is no fool. Not that Ford ever thought that, Sherlock hated being surrounded by idiots, but the doctor’s ability to fade in the background makes it easy to ignore the fact. He takes a sip from his own tea, contemplating how to proceed.

 

“Well, it was Mycroft’s idea …” he waits for some reaction, but John just looks at him, “… but I asked him for some advice on a rather delicate problem.”

 

The only reaction is a lifted eyebrow and Ford continues: “One of the agents was behaving strangely and I wanted an independent opinion on him.”

 

“Are you going to tell me which agent it is?”

 

“No.”

 

This time both eyebrows are raised.

 

“Are you going to tell me what you mean by strange?”

 

“Slower reaction time, lack of emotional control, things like that. Not strange enough to alert M or Tanner, but noticeable.”

 

John’s look is now a perfect picture of incredulity.

 

“You realise that I’ve just met those agents for the first time and you said the agent was already behaving strangely?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Oh, good. And how am I supposed to find this particular agent and what’s wrong with him? I mean I'm not Sherlock or a bloody Holmes for that matter; there is probably nothing I would find that you haven't seen already.”

 

It’s a question Ford has thought of, but he has decided to trust Mycroft’s advice which – come to think of it – might just be the proof that his elder brother had known about the connection between John and James. He files this thought away for later and returns to the conversation.

 

“Don't underestimate yourself. Sherlock valued your opinion. You were his 'Conductor of light'.”

 

It hadn’t been his intention, but obviously Sherlock is still the best way to convince John. He watches him swallow and John’s voice suddenly sounds raw.

 

“He told you that?”

 

Ford nods.

 

“Sentimental bastard.”

 

John’s voice breaks slightly and Ford can see the additional moisture in John’s eyes. He looks out of the windows, giving the doctor some time to regain his composure.

 

“So you want me to observe some agents who are trained to kill and to lie about everyone and everything?”

 

Ford looks back at John, notices the wet eyelashes, but the mute determination.

 

“Yes.”

 

At this John slumps slightly, drinks his remaining tea before muttering with slight indignation.

 

“Oh right then, no problem at all. I thought it would be something challenging.”


	6. Knight in rusty armour

It is remarkable, Bond muses, that in all his time at MI6 he never had anything approaching a routine until recently. Yes, there had been protocol and sometimes even he chose to follow it, but during the last few months, John and Q (the new one) have managed to establish something like a regular schedule for him.

 

When he returns from a mission during office hours (at least what the majority of the population would consider office hours), he returns to MI6, hands back the remains of any gadgets that he was issued with, banters with Q about improvements that will actually survive one of his missions, and listens to Q’s rambling about why he hates Bond and the fact that there are budget cuts. James is pretty sure that Q is not serious, otherwise he wouldn’t insist on supervising his missions (and Bond knows Q is there even if it is one of Q’s minions on the other side of the line), let alone giving him his toys.

 

Afterwards he goes to medical branch, one of the sections he avoided before his latest resurrection if he could manage it. Now, with John Watson as one of the medical officers, he goes there willingly, lets himself be stitched up when necessary, and starts on his paperwork. John is adamant regarding the paperwork, but years of routine have taught James to hand in the minimum of words that are required for every mission. Even Eve had complimented him on his lack of unnecessary information. Usually he waits for John to end his shift, and then they return to Baker Street.

 

Bond hasn’t moved in officially – as in it was never verbalised -, but most of his clothes are currently in the flat and he hasn’t stayed at a London hotel for quite some time. Per unspoken agreement the upper bedroom is his, and he pays his share of the rent to Mrs Hudson directly. Another unspoken agreement is the avoidance of anything related to Sherlock Holmes. Bond is pretty sure that most of the mess in the flat originates from the late detective, but he leaves it as it is, only adding the porcelain bulldog to the mess besides the skull.

 

Sometimes, when they are both in the mood, they shag. It is not as regular as one would assume for two sexually compatible bachelors who share a flat. But James finds that he values the friendship more, the shared meals and stories, the banter over the football, the discussion about weapon preferences. He meets some of John’s new friends: Greg Lestrade from the Met, Mike Stamford (of whom he has a vague recollection from their university days) and a very shy Molly Hooper. Apparently they have also signed the ‘Avoid-Sherlock-Holmes’-waiver, because the only thing they share on this topic is an expression of relief that John has found a new occupation.

 

James has done his homework, of course, and looked into the detective’s file. Nobody bats an eyelid at the British secret service when he accesses information that has nothing to do with his missions. He reads between the lines and from John’s blog to know that the accusations had been wrong, but at the current state of the official investigations there is nothing he can do. It just makes the suicide a pretty stupid thing to do.  He knows enough not to discuss this particular topic with John. Instead he looks out for signs of grief, such as the doctor had shown during their first night in this flat, and tries to come up with a distraction every time he catches a glimpse.

 

Although today he is prepared for another kind of distraction. His newly established routine for returning from a mission was firstly disrupted by Q attending some staff meeting instead of receiving his gadgets back, and by learning afterwards that John had written an email, writing in sick for the last three days. If John has been sick for three days, it is probably serious, and the chances are that he is bored to death. Especially since Mrs Hudson is due to be away on a cruise with her sister, so there is no one at Baker Street to look after him.

 

As usual, Bond finds a parking space directly in front of 221B – sometimes he wonders if Q has something to do with this – and also as usual he checks the flat’s windows and his surroundings before he stands in front of the door. But he hesitates to open it. There are new scratchmarks on the wood near the lock. Which might be a sign of a weak John struggling with the keys, completely innocently, or it might be a sign of a break-in. Bond isn’t sure if he ever opted to assume for the harmless interpretation, instead he takes out his gun, and opens the door very carefully with his left hand. The hallway looks all right to him; no changes that can’t be explained by everyday living.

 

Slowly he mounts the steps, avoids the creaking one, and hesitates once more when he sees that the flat door is ajar. Bond approaches it slowly. The living room looks normal through the small crack, and even when the door is opened, there are no signs of an intruder. John’s laptop is opened on his desk, but when James calls out for his flatmate there is no reaction. A quick walk-through reveals that John is not in the flat and that his wallet, phone, jacket and shoes are missing. His keys are lying beside the laptop.

 

James reaches for his phone, dialling John’s number. His call goes directly to voicemail. Bond’s next call is Q. After all there is a reason why the phone of every MI6 member has GPS.

 

“Q, I need the current location of John’s phone.”

 

“What happened?” In the background James hears the rhythm of fast typing. 

 

“I don’t know, just a bad feeling.” He uses the few moments of wait to check the street from the windows, seeing nothing unusual. It doesn’t calm his instincts.

 

“It’s in a little alley, not far from Baker Street. I’ll guide you.”

 

The alley is indeed little. And empty. He finds the phone underneath a skip, next to John’s wallet. Superficially there is nothing wrong here, but Bond detects the small signs of a struggle.

 

“Send a forensic team, I think John was abducted.”

 

* * *

 

If anyone were to ask him, Bond would say that this meeting is a waste of time. Of course nobody asked him, and the only reason Bond sits in M’s office with his new boss, Tanner, Eve, Q and three random suits that look remarkably like lawyers caught in bureaucracy, is the fact that he had returned to MI6 to get the CCTV coverage and gather the gadgets he just left there only three hours ago.

 

“Mr Bond, we cannot allow you to go searching for Captain Watson.”

 

“I’m not asking for your permission.” The simple statement elicits sighs from Tanner and M, a smirk from Eve and Q, and something approaching panic from the lawyers.

 

“Mr Bond, I understand that you are … close to Captain Watson”, and this time it’s him that can’t hide the smirk at their obvious discomfort, but he is not surprised that his relationship with John is an open secret. After all most of MI6 is trained to observe. “But at the moment nothing indicates that this is an international operation. And regarding Captain Watson’s past and his unfortunate association with Sherlock Holmes …”

 

“What do you mean with ‘unfortunate’?” Q’s interruption and his heated glare across the table effectively stop the man and letting him lean back as far as his chair allow. His colleague seems a bit braver because he continues in a condescending voice.

 

“Well, we all know that Mr Holmes was accused of staging all those crimes he investigated, even invented a criminal mastermind. Maybe some of his associates tried to get back at Watson since Holmes took the easy way out.”

 

Again this response is anything but well received. Bond has never seen Q this furious, his eyes burning with rage. Who would have thought that Q had such a fire in him? And what was Q’s association with Sherlock Holmes? A puzzle for another day, filed for later consideration. At the moment, Bond prefers to ensure that everybody leaves the room alive.

 

“You should have done your research”, the agent speaks before Q can say anything (and isn’t it strange for once not to be the one causing a riot). “Holmes wasn’t a fraud, and Moriarty was a criminal with international connections. Some arm dealers here, some terrorists there. You think it has to do with Holmes’ and Watson’s past – well, there you have the international connection.”

 

Bond learned to threaten people purely with body language long ago, but usually the people he has to deal with are equally prepared. It’s nice to see the effect on normal people once in a while. He would enjoy it more if those bureaucrats weren’t wasting his – and Q’s – time.

 

“Bond, you can’t investigate.” M sounds resigned, as if it is not really his first choice. “Remember the last time you broke protocol – we were lucky that nobody called us out on it and the Prime Minister blamed MI5. So, let MI5 do their job this time. As soon as we have knowledge that Watson is out of the country, you’ll be the first to know.”

 

“I’m surprised. I thought you would be more worried that a high ranking member of MI6 with one of the highest security clearances and access to nearly all of MI6 personnel files has disappeared without a trace. Especially after what happened with Silva. Shouldn’t you be worried that someone will get access to our network again? I heard this is the new type of warfare?”

 

He sends an apologetic look to Q, who seems to understand that Bond’s argument is more for John’s sake than a questioning of his competence. Unfortunately the lawyers have regained their composure and believe they have gained the upper hand with M’s backup.

 

“Well, Captain Watson is also a trained army veteran; I think he might be able to withhold information for some time under torture. And of course the passcodes were changed as soon as we learnt of his disappearance. Q branch has informed us that so far nobody tried to access the databases with his code. If this happens they will monitor the contact and trace him. Isn’t that correct, Mr ... mmh … Q?”

 

Another glare is sent to the lawyers, and Bond really can’t help but notice how expressive the quartermaster’s face is.

 

“That is correct. Everything will be monitored, and all information will be submitted to MI5.” Bond really wants to wipe out the satisfied smile from the lawyer’s face. “However …”, Q continues, his voice the complete opposite of the angry expression he directs at the lawyers, “I will be on leave for some time, so you should address all related questions to my assistant.”

 

And with this he simply rises and walks out of the door. Bond would cherish the surprise on the other’s faces even more if he weren’t so surprised himself. As soon as he has caught up with Q, he really needs to establish the connection to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. It really was a mistake not asking John earlier.

 

In a smooth movement he also stands up. “M, I will also be on leave for an indeterminate period. Moneypenny, please take me off the list of agents on stand-by. Gentlemen.”

 

Apparently everybody is on shock, because the room remains silent until he has left. Bond closes the door carefully and starts to look for the quartermaster.

 


	7. Blood and water

Ford has always admired Sherlock’s talent for dramatic disappearances. He is pretty sure that Sherlock would be disappointed by his method, which consists of returning to Q branch, instructing Brian and Malin what to do in his absence, and looking for useful things. He gathers some of the gadgets that are still in the experimental stage and therefore not officially in the system. Malin is silently helping with his packing and listening to his explanations.

 

It is her startled response that makes him look up. Bond stands at his open office door. The knock on the frame is more for form's sake, the amused smirk adding to the air of confidence. Ford ignores the agent in favour of searching through his drawers for any more gadgets. Things he experimented with and left them abandoned when he couldn’t objectively justify their use. He leaves most where they are, only to remove his scrabble mug from his desk to the chaos in his drawers. After all, he is planning on returning to the office. 

 

“Weapons?”

 

It is not really a question, more a demand. Of course, a trained assassin would think of weapons. He inspects the other cupboards in his office in case he has stored some ideas in them while assuring Bond.

 

“Weapons won’t be a problem.”

 

Brian enters the room, squeezes past Bond in the doorway and hands Q an USB-stick.

 

“The tracking code. And Watson’s complete file. Military, University, Police. Plus a preliminary report on the abduction site.” Brian glances nervously at Bond. “When will you be back?”

 

“I don’t know, might take a while. I’ll stay in touch.”

 

Ford is finished with the inventory of his furniture, he glances one last time around but nothing catches his eye. So he just closes his bag and rummages in his pocket for his MI6 ID to hand it to Brian.

 

“Here, keep it for me. I will need it back.” The young man looks unhappily at the card in his hand.

 

“Good luck.”

 

“Thank you. Let’s go, Bond.”

 

* * *

 

Bond’s car is the closest to the elevator. He hasn’t bothered to park in a designated spot, and it isn’t even locked. Q wants to say something about it, but 007 beats him to it.

 

“If someone steals a car from inside MI6, we'll have a bigger problem than a missing car.”

 

He is right, but Q doesn’t like such casual treatment of lots and lots of taxpayer's money. And maybe they shouldn’t take it. He doesn’t want to leave a paper (or GPS) trail. Even if they are officially on leave and nobody in M’s office is stupid enough not to realise what they have planned. Again Bond reads his mind.

 

“Don’t worry, we’ll change the car.” The slight smirk around Bond’s eyes shows clearly that he enjoys Q’s annoyance. It is not very often that other persons besides family members are able to read him so easily. He just hopes that doesn’t work for all aspects of their relationship.

 

Their replacement car is an old Jag. Ford isn’t that much into cars beside the fact that they transport him from A to B and he can hide many interesting gadgets in them, but the vintage style appeals to him. He spends his time thinking about additional weaponry and maybe some safety improvements, while he directs Bond to Mycroft’s home. He has seen how agents usually drive; therefore any additional safety measure is by default a good idea.

 

And the best part about contemplating safety features is that he can concentrate on something other than the way Bond’s hand clenches the gearstick, the tanned skin an absurdly appealing contrast to his white shirt. Or how his fingers tap impatiently against the steering wheel if other drivers don’t react fast enough. Or worse notice the slight muscle movement of Bond’s legs wrapped in tailored trousers.

 

Q tries to stay focused, but with every breath he inhales Bond’s smell and everything gets more and more intense. He is aware of his own body’s responses, the tingling of his nerves, the beads of sweat appearing on his back. Nervously he licks his lips and stares at the street in front of him and can’t help but notice the efficient grace with which Bond moves. And damn, he is just driving a car, for god’s sake.

 

With a barely supressed groan he opens the window, breathing in the cold air and welcomes the fresh breeze that clears his thoughts somewhat.

 

“You are not getting carsick, are you?”

 

Surprised by the question Q turns his head, but his inquiry is lost when his hormone fuelled brain decides to admire the agent’s profile. He is caught staring and the little smile around Bond’s mouth doesn’t help him to get his wits back, but he manages a stuttered ‘no’.

 

“You looked a bit flushed. Sure everything’s alright?”

 

Bond’s gaze is back at the traffic and Q is thankful for that.

 

“Yes, just too many things on my mind. I needed to clear my head a bit.”

 

At least to his ears, it almost sounded convincing.

 

“If you say so.” The tone is dubious, but what catches Q completely off-guard is Bond’s fingertip running from his temple to his jaw. He thinks he sees a trace of moisture on Bond’s index finger until it is rubbed away with the thumb. The effect on Q is immense: accelerated breathing, goose bumps all over his body and a completely dry throat.

 

He is not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed when they stop in front of Mycroft’s house.

 

* * *

 

Grabbing the bag from the backseat and climbing the staircase allows him to get his bodily reactions somewhat under control. He tries to read Bond’s expression, but the other man has his agent mask on which betrays nothing. He wants to ask Bond what this little display was about, but before he can start to form the words the door is open and they are admitted to the mansion.

 

Q knows the house by heart, it is their family home. He had spent too much time with Sherlock exploring every corner while pretending to be pirates, looking for hidden treasures. After their father’s death Mycroft had inherited it, but Ford knows that he (and Sherlock) could move in anytime they wanted. But experience has taught them that all three Holmes brothers under the same roof only works with some middleman for longer than just a few hours. They have a way to get under each other’s skin quite easily.

 

Mycroft awaits them in the library. The large table their father used to spread his old maps and antique leather books over is covered with three laptops, tablets, additional monitors and an antique tea service. On the monitors they see several video feeds. Q recognises Baker Street and the alley in which John disappeared; the other feeds are certainly from surrounding streets.

 

“Anything new?” Q approaches the desk, taking over without any resistance from Mycroft, unpacking Brian’s USB-stick and opening the file on one of the computers which is currently not playing any video feed.

 

“No, unfortunately the CCTV in this area was out of commission due to maintenance.”

 

When Mycroft turns back to the third man in the room it is obvious that he had been expecting both of them. “Commander Bond, how nice to finally meet you. I’m Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Q can’t resist and turns around to watch the exchange of meaningless greetings with the unhealthy fascination of someone observing a car crash. He sees the reservations on both sides. He knows all Mycroft's tells, and of course he had made a point of knowing Bond's too. Bond is too experienced not to know that he is judged, but hopefully he doesn’t guess the real reason. Or maybe he does if the scene in the car means anything. Damn it, as if he needed Mycroft’s meddling in his non-existent love affair with Bond.

 

He knows that Mycroft has no regard for the agents of her Majesty – he tends to underestimate them, claiming to be prepared for the worst. But Ford knows that Bond is more than just a trained killer, you don’t survive in this business this long on sheer luck. He is sure Bond has figured out their relationship to John by now and he is not surprised in the slightest that 007 doesn’t ask the obvious question and instead concentrates on the facts.

 

“How many people knew about the maintenance?”

 

The agent steps nearer to the monitors, looking at the one which has a still of John leaving his front door.

 

“In the right circles it was common knowledge. Not including those who might have hacked the network.” Q makes a mental note to look into the security measures for the MI6 CCTV records. He hopes they’ll find something else. Checking everybody who might have known about the maintenance could take ages.

 

“So probably not a coincidence.”

 

“I doubt it.” From the corner of his eye, Q watches the small nod as Bond agrees. Nobody in this room really believes in coincidences. Q follows John’s walk to the alley, looking for someone following him. He can see Bond doing the same. There is nobody, at least not in the small frame between John leaving his home and disappearing from the camera angle.

 

“Did they find anything on John’s phone?” Before Q can open the right file on the stick, Mycroft returns to the desk, shifting some papers.

 

“No, nothing. No calls, no texts. If he had an appointment it was not arranged electronically.” At Bond’s inquiring eyebrow, he adds.

 

“Every transmission from and to John’s phone is monitored by my people. A simple safety procedure.” Bond’s eyebrow rises even higher and Ford has to contain his giggle at Mycroft’s annoyed reaction. Somehow today he can understand why Sherlock liked provoking their brother so much. It is also amusing to see a spy’s indignation when faced with surveillance.

 

“Given John’s relationship to my brother, I thought it safer to keep him under my watch.”

 

“Well, obviously not safe enough.” Bond’s answer is a simple statement, not the icy blow it could have been. It still changes the atmosphere in the room. Q recognises the little twitch around Mycroft’s eyes as guilt. He shares the same feeling; after all they both made the same promise. He returns his full attention to the monitors, switching to the right time frame on the next camera angle, but John has already disappeared. Ford opens a map of London on one of the laptops, comparing the streets and recognises a small doorway on the left corner. Changing to the right camera feed confirms it: Yes, there is John. Bloody Sherlock and his ridiculous shortcuts.

 

Only when he has established John on the camera feed on the other side of the street, does he look up to ask. “Do you think it has to do with Sherlock? Could it be Moran?” It seems the most logical conclusion. Even the morons in the meeting had thought of this, but something doesn’t add up.

 

“As far as I know Moran is still in Italy. Of course he could have hired someone but that seems unlikely. Not as long as he thinks … well what he thinks.” Surprisingly Mycroft’s eyes flutter for a moment to Bond and of course the agent notices it. This cooperation will be very challenging if they want to keep the family secrets from 007. And if the agent continues to be so damnably attentive.

 

“Who is Moran?” At least he is still more focused on finding John, but Ford doesn’t have any illusions about Bond asking more questions later.

 

“Sebastian Moran, former Royal Army, now a gun for hire. Worked for James Moriarty, in fact was his second in command and has now taken over the organisation.” Mycroft explains without hesitation.

 

 “And you think he would be interested in John? As revenge for Moriarty’s end?”

 

“It is a possibility.”

 

“It’s not revenge.” Q can’t stop his groan when he hears the smooth baritone. What the hell is Sherlock doing here?


	8. Playing with fire

The silence is only interrupted by Q’s typing and clicking. Bond has found a nice spot by the wall, from which he can observe the whole room. He watches the change in scenery on the different monitors, follows cars and people moving through the area of John’s abduction. Until now, nothing really fits the time frame, the cars appear too quickly on another CCTV stream to be relevant. Long absent people are usually explained by the sudden appearance of a shopping bag, or a cross reference with driver’s licences or passports says that those people actually live in the area.

 

Both he and Q ignore the discussion in one of the neighbouring rooms. The house is old enough that only the voices are carried through the wall, not the actual words. But Bond has more than a hunch regarding the nature of Mycroft and ‘Sherrinford’s discussion.

 

Sherrinford – the agent really hopes that the name is only used for the sake of pretence because he has no doubt that he just met the recently deceased Sherlock Holmes. Admittedly the man who silently entered the library fifteen minutes ago is much thinner looking than the pictures Bond has seen. But the piercing eyes and the even more prominent cheekbones are unmistakable, even without the curls, which are replaced by a very military style haircut.

 

The worn-looking jeans and the faded jumper give the impression of a struggling student or junkie, a stark contrast to the suits Mycroft Holmes wears. A very big part of him – that part that watches John for any sign of grief – is boiling with anger on John’s behalf, wants to demand answers, but he hasn’t survived this long in the business without learning a few things about patience and priorities. And at the moment finding John is the main priority. Everything else can be dealt with afterwards.

 

“I may have found something”, Q interrupts his train of thought. Bond leaves his wall to look more closely at the frozen image on the screen. A white van, completely unremarkable, one of dozens he had already seen on the screen in the last minutes.

 

“Why do you think it has something to do with John’s abduction?”

 

“Do you see the dent on the driver's side?” Bond leans closer over Q’s shoulder. Yes, there is something on the driver's side but it could be anything.

 

“How is this relevant?”

 

“It isn't really, it just looks a bit like the Star Trek symbol, that’s why I remember it. The van has driven past the scene three times in half an hour.” Three times in half an hour. A fast look over the other screens shows a few parking spaces large enough for a van. So either the driver is really lost, or he is checking the area for something else.

 

“Any pictures of the driver?”

 

“No, bad combination of sunlight and camera angle. I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we'll have more luck with the other cameras.”

 

“Why don’t you ask one of those CSI guys? They only need to press one button for a clear image.”

 

Q snorts and turns his head, probably for a witty retort. Bond waits with a grin, but the answer never comes. He hadn’t realised how close Q is. Q’s surprised exhale feels too intimate. His amusement is slowly fading and James remembers the feeling of warm skin under his fingers. He finds himself staring into Q’s eyes, lost in the attempt to determine the exact colour. The grey of a rainy day in London on the outside, mixed with the green of Scotland’s woods and some brown surrounding dilating pupils.

 

He moves closer, instinctively, following an unspoken invitation. An invitation he hadn’t known he wanted to receive. But those eyes lure him closer as does the memory of sweat covering the pale skin. His eyes flicker to the other man’s lips. Full, but still unmistakably male, traces of stubble around. They open slightly and their breaths mingle and Bond closes the last remaining space …

 

“Have you found anything?”

 

His groan is heartfelt and he can hear the answering sound from the man inches away from him. It makes him want to ignore the arrival of Sherlock Holmes, to chase the traces of this sound with his mouth. But Q is already moving away from him, a slight blush tinting his cheeks. It gives him at least some sense of satisfaction, but he suppresses it along with the embarrassment and faces Sherlock Holmes. Right now, he can totally understand why some people wanted the man dead.

 

“A van. Drives around the area three times in half an hour.”

 

Q’s voice is a little rougher than normal, another element that Bond silently adds to his new list of things to explore a little further. Amazingly Sherlock Holmes seems completely unaware of the tension and the situation he just interrupted. Instead he resembles an eager puppy, with eyes only for the stick and completely focused on it.

 

“Good, have you got the licence plate?”

 

Even his movement seems more puppy-like muses Bond, as Sherlock rushes forward and takes Bond’s place over Q’s shoulder, scribbling down the plate number. Or maybe a foal?

 

“I’ll get the homeless network to look for it.” Without any ceremony he leaves the room, only stopping when Q calls after him. “Tell them it has a Star Trek dent on the driver's side.”

 

“Star Trek?” Sherlock echoes. Bond is about to comment on the other man’s confusion, but Q simply adds. “Just tell them, they will probably know.” They both watch Sherlock hesitating for a moment before he resumes his exit. An awkward silence settles in the library, Bond wants to say something, but doesn’t know exactly what. Before he can make a decision, Mycroft returns to the library. He raises an eyebrow and Bond finds himself surprised and unsurprised at the same time that the eldest Holmes interprets the situation right. But thankfully, he doesn’t comment on it.

 

“Sherrinford?” he asks, apparently also deciding that other things are more important.

 

“Alerting the homeless-network.”

 

Mycroft looks for a moment on the screen. “Stolen?”

 

“Yes. On the day of the kidnapping, still missing. Blind spot for the camera.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Lestrade has received a copy of the file. As has Anthea.”

 

A nod of acknowledgement, then Mycroft leaves the room. Q returns his attention to the screens, and Bond resumes his place at the wall. It seems safer, even when Mycroft returns with a tea tray. He’d prefer scotch, but accepts the cup. Now they’ll have to wait again.

 

* * *

 

Slowly Bond inhales the smoke, mentally following the path of his inhalation into his lungs before breathing out again. The cigarette rests carelessly between his fingers, almost vulgar in this posh environment. He stands on the terrace outside of the library, the white marble floor still gleaming in the twilight. He needed a moment on his own, the walls slowly suffocating him. His thoughts are moving between John and the almost kiss with Q.

 

The two Holmes brothers in the library are no distraction for his own musings. They sit silently over the monitors, watching John’s abduction scene from every angle and then turning to the material covering the car theft. The only communications are some half sentences, probably only for Bond’s benefit and in no way helping him to stay on topic. He wishes there were something else he could do, a lead he could follow, but there is no progress. Bond is trapped in a library with very inappropriate thoughts about a colleague, and too much time to notice lots of interesting details.

 

The graceful neck covered by errant curls. He wants to touch it, to see if the skin there is as smooth as it looks, as delicate to touch as Q’s face. He wants to grab a fistful of this mop of hair, learning its texture and using it to keep the man in place while he learns more about the body. When he starts to think about a chest, as pale as the visible part of his skin, he decides to leave the room. This is hardly the time and the place to indulge in such fantasies.

 

Bond takes another pull from the cigarette, watching the red gleam at the end growing brighter and disappearing again. He hears the footsteps behind him, but doesn’t turn around.

 

“Can I have one?”

 

Bond takes out the packet of cigarettes, offers it to the other man. Sherlock takes one, takes the lighter and lights it. Out of the corner of his eye Bond watches the first pull, the indulgence, eyes closed, head tilted back, the exhale a sinful image against the light of the library. Bond turns his gaze away, looks over the perfect symmetry of the garden. At the back of his mind questions are accumulating. The long time waiting and the new awareness of Q wear his patience thin, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

“How is John?”

 

Surprise makes him turn again, but he can’t read any emotion on the other man’s face.

 

“Why don’t you ask your brothers?”

 

“They lie.” It seems such a simple statement, but there is something off about it. It doesn’t match the forced casualness and the body is slightly tense. Sherlock Holmes is hard to read, but Bond thinks he has some idea what might be going through the other man’s head.

           

“He is okay.” James takes another pull. “Grieving, but moving on.”

 

“That’s … that’s good.” Holmes’ face still betrays nothing, his eyes focusing on something beyond the garden. The exhale on the other hand seems a bit shaky. Bond feels a stab of satisfaction at that observation.

 

“He likes MI6, likes to feel useful again. Practising medicine. I’ve heard he applied for one of the field offices.” The last bit is a lie, but it fulfils its purpose. The unmoving mask waivers, Bond notices the small twitches around the nose, the greater tension in the body. “After all, he is still a crack shot.”

 

The other man’s eyes close, and for a short moment resignation settles in the sharp features, but it is chased away by sadness. “He was supposed to be safe.” The words are a whisper, barely audible. They soften Bond’s anger and his answer is not as harsh as it was meant to be. “Life is not safe. And John Watson never cared for a safe life.”

 

“I know.” Holmes takes a drag of his cigarette, exhales slowly. He turns to Bond, faces him for the first time. James sees the eyes flickering over him, an assessing glance. He has been subject to too many of them to feel any insecurity; instead he takes a last pull from his cigarette before extinguishing it with his heel. The movement causes a flicker around Holmes’ mouth, almost a smile, although it vanishes immediately.

 

“Will you take care of him?” Bond is pretty sure that he is now one of only a few people on earth that have heard Sherlock Holmes begging. And the agent thinks of Baker Street, of shared meals, of shared nights. He thinks of sadness, and wrinkles that shouldn’t be there. The anger is still there, not as fierce as before, but enough that he still wants to hurt. 

 

“I already do.” He knows immediately that he landed a blow, but the satisfaction is shallow. If possible Holmes pales even more and in the dim moonlight his eyes seem the most colourful element in his face. For a moment he looks broken and as if he is about to say something, and Bond waits. In the end he waits in vain, the unmoving mask slowly sliding back in place.

 

They both notice the movement down in the gardens at the same time. Bond reaches for his gun as Holmes instantly takes on a defensive stance. A man appears between the bushes. His clothes have seen better days. He needs a haircut and a razor. The homeless network has done its duty.


	9. All the king’s horses

Ford can’t believe they are doing this on their own. They have MI5 and the Met officially looking for John, Mycroft has the bloody army at his disposal, Sherlock his damn homeless network and who knows about Bond, hell, they could probably get M to put together a rescue team, but no, apparently, back-up is for the faint-hearted.

 

His objections include an unknown number of opponents, unknown weaponry, unknown anything. But these are all met with incomprehension. He desperately tries to find at least one method of surveillance, if only for his own nerves. He hates doing this more or less blind. Infrared sensors don’t show any nasty surprises, there is no unusual heating in the outer walls, so probably no elaborate security system. Satellite feeds don't show anything unusual, but the MI6 training is hard to overcome and yes, he is worried. Why shouldn’t he worry? He is not an agent.

 

Of course, everybody else is doing fine. No surprise regarding Bond and Sherlock, they both thrive on danger, but he had hoped for some common sense from Mycroft. But even the British Government seemed in favour of some recklessness and only brought ‘Anthea’ as support. And although Anthea’s training equals Bond’s, he really thinks this rescue mission could only profit from more people.

 

His silent fuming is interrupted by Mycroft.

 

“Ford, you heard the man. They have only seen one car arriving, there won’t be more than a handful of men here. Besides we don’t know John’s condition, every minute might be valuable.”

 

Ford knows that his brother genuinely likes John Watson, but the display of worry is definitely only a show for him, since it’s already obvious that nobody will listen to him. In times like these he is strongly reminded why he loathed being the youngest brother. Nobody took him seriously. He glares at the other men, only to feel foolish at Anthea’s understanding smirk.

 

With a sigh he shuts the laptop and concentrates on the sight in front of him. An abandoned warehouse in one of the industrial districts on London’s periphery. The paperwork had shown no current owner. The last one had died without any heirs, and now everything is slowly crumbling. In the light of the only functioning lamp-post he can see the white van, the Star Trek dent barely visible in the dim illumination. There is no sign of any guards on the outside. They probably feel safe enough with the other warehouses also unoccupied.

 

Of course, it is Sherlock who gives the starting signal to their rescue mission. Mycroft has provided them with guns, and Ford knows that Sherlock has had shooting lessons, but he is relieved when Bond firmly takes the lead. A trained assassin is certainly a better choice than a man who usually relies on an ex-army surgeon when it comes to gunfights.

 

He follows Anthea and Mycroft, carefully closing their car door, avoiding  noise as much as possible. Every step feels too loud, every breath like a scream. It’s the first mission he's actually participated in with a real weapon. On the outside. He really prefers his usual role behind the computer screens. This feels much too random; he is too exposed for his taste. And anyway, that’s what he said to Bond on their first meeting. He does the damage in his pyjamas and Bond pulls the trigger. Perfect task sharing.

 

Bond slowly opens the door to the warehouse, slips in, closely followed by Sherlock and Anthea. Ford is barely in the small hallway that leads to dark offices on one side, and on the other to a large hangar, when he hears the first shots. He rushes in behind Mycroft, but it is immediately apparent that they missed the whole of the action. Not that Ford minds very much.

 

Anthea secures the thugs; Ford can see them still moving so they are still alive.  Bond roams the hangar. There are not many hiding spots, and he joins Ford and Mycroft when they reach the chair John Watson is bound to. The doctor is unconscious, and bruises in all shades from purple to black cover his face and his upper torso. Cuts and scratches are encrusted with blood, and the rattling exhales indicate fractured ribs and maybe a punctured lung. Q is relieved that they have an ambulance nearby, at least; he can hear Mycroft alerting it.

 

Sherlock is hunched over his flatmate, undoing his bonds carefully. His brother’s expression is raw, a rare display of open longing when he wipes some blood from John’s battered face. Ford feels like an intruder, and is thankful for Mycroft’s false cough.

 

“Sherrinford, the ambulance will be here shortly to take care of him.”

 

For a moment it seems as if Sherlock hasn’t heard his brother, softly caressing the small amount of John’s skin that is free of any damage. Then he straightens, a harsh movement in contrast to his usual grace, closes his eyes and Q can almost see how he wills himself to turn. When he faces them, his eyes are a bit glassy, but otherwise he doesn’t show any emotion. Ford expects him to say something, but in the end it is Mycroft who breaks the silence again.

 

“He will be safe, I promise.”

 

A sharp nod, a turn back almost as if can’t help himself, and then Sherlock leaves. The door bounces a little on the outside wall, and they can hear the ambulance arriving.

 

 

* * *

 

Four hours later Bond and Ford are suddenly the ones in charge of a still unconscious John Watson in one of Mycroft’s bedrooms. Mycroft himself has left for the office, but not without assuring them that he will inform all relevant parties about John Watson’s status. They both watch the nurse (who Ford vaguely recognises as the least annoying during Sherlock’s rehab) adjusting the IV tube and the pillow, before settling in a chair beside the bed.

 

Ford understands her blatant ignoring of their presence as clear dismissal, and leaves for the library. Maybe he should go to sleep, he feels the physical exhaustion in his whole body, but his brain is still whirling. Scenes of their rescue mission, the moment in the car, the one interrupted by Sherlock. He hears Bond’s footsteps following him, but chooses to ignore him for the moment. In the library he makes a perfunctory attempt at clearing the table, shifting papers and files together, dismantling the monitors and pcs.

 

It's a way to keep himself occupied, trying not to think that this is the first time he is alone with Bond after what had happened the last time they had been here together. He is nervous, ridiculously nervous, desperately searching for a topic to discuss, to prepare some neutral ground and trying not to find a way to convince Bond to finish what they had started.

 

"We should probably check in with M." It’s certainly not his best attempt at communication, especially since Mycroft had told them he would deal with everything, but in his defence it is way past midnight and he is allowed not to be on top of his game.

 

"Why do you lie to him?"

 

 Bond’s question catches him off-guard.

 

"What do you mean?"

 

He turns to find Bond standing in the middle of the room with a tumbler full of whiskey.

 

"John thinks his best friend committed suicide in front of his eyes, while said friend is very much alive and chasing criminals. He needs to know the truth."

 

Yeah, Ford had thought Bond to be too clever to fall for the Sherrinford ruse, but this is not a good time to discover that he is right about the agent’s intellect and instincts.

 

"Sherlock did everything to save John. Telling John the truth would jeopardize his whole plan."

 

It’s a weak argument, but despite fearing Bond might learn the truth, he isn’t prepared.

 

"How so? John is suffering. Is it worth that?"

 

"Why do you care so much? I mean after John came back from Afghanistan you never contacted him, you never visited him in hospital. Sherlock gave him a new purpose. Sherlock was there for him, not you. You just met him again because he was hired by MI6 and now you are playing the concerned friend?”

 

Attack is the best form of defence. Ford knows that his words have stung. He doesn’t really want to hurt Bond, but right now he has to keep Sherlock’s secret, has to convince Bond to keep it too. At least until he can speak with Sherlock to discuss the situation (more likely inform him that Bond knows and he will tell John).

 

"It's not the same." The answer comes hesitant.

 

"How is it not the same?"

 

“It’s difficult to explain. It’s more of a brothers-in-arms-thing.”

 

“And isn’t one of the brothers-in-arms rules to keep each other safe? Not telling John is keeping him safe. You are not telling him anything about your missions either, are you?”

 

Bond comes closer, putting the glass on the table behind Ford. Q can see the fire in those blue eyes. He swallows, fighting to hear Bond’s explanation. It is certainly not the right time to give in to his hormones.

 

“As I said, it’s not the same.” Bond lowers his voice, Ford can feel goose bumps rising on his skin. “John and I have known each other since our childhood. When we both entered the forces, we knew that our priorities had switched. My first priority is England, has been for a long time. I have returned from death because England, MI6, was attacked.” Bond comes even closer. “But John’s priorities have changed after his return. Sherlock was his first priority. So, he needs to know.”

 

It’s really hard to find an argument, when Bond is this close. Ford is pretty sure Bond wants to intimidate him, but the effect he has is quite the contrary. He feels the blood rushing in his ears and his own voice sounds feeble when he tries to find a way to convince the agent of his brother’s agenda.

 

"And John is Sherlock’s first priority. You have seen him. He is not enjoying death, drinking himself to an untimely death in a bar on the other side of the world. He is making sure John is still alive when he returns.”

 

The movement is completely unexpected. One moment Ford is trying to argue with Bond and his body’s responses to the close proximity, and in the next a hot searing mouth descends on his and he forgets everything. There is just the taste of Bond, of Bond's tongue in his mouth and Bond's hands on the back of his head and on the small of his back, keeping him trapped between the table and the agent’s body. But there is no need to keep him in a deathly grip because Q willingly surrenders after a moment of surprise, licks in Bond's mouth, over his teeth and his palate and it makes him dizzy and maybe it is not such a bad idea that Bond doesn't loosen his grip, because Q loses himself in the moment, the pleasure and the little noises that might come from either of them.

 

But suddenly the agent pulls away and Q feels the loss on so many levels that it takes a moment to gain something akin to equilibrium, and opens his eyes to stare at the man opposite him. Bond isn’t paying any attention to him, he has turned towards the door where Ford notices the nurse, clearly uncomfortable, wringing her hands.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt … I just wanted to borrow a book if that’s all right?”

 

“Of course, no problem.” Q manages an encouraging nod and then follows her hesitating movements with his eyes, all the time feeling a bit as if caught up in the November fog of London and only too clearly aware of the agent next to him. The nurse doesn’t take long, obviously just grabs the first book that sounds just a bit interesting and then she almost flees the library.

 

When they are alone again, Q turns to Bond. The agent’s face is blank, but there is still fire in his eyes. Not the cold fury from before but a hot arousing flame that lures Q nearer, but Bond takes a step backwards, keeping their distance.

 

"We shouldn't do this."

 

Bond's words are like a bucket of ice cold water that clears the fog and Q remembers their argument. It is hard not to dwell on the feeling of being rejected, and to return to the issue at hand. Ford has to take a few breaths to get himself, his body, the emotional roller-coaster under control, but when he finally speaks his voice almost sounds normal.

 

"If you tell John now that Sherlock is alive, he will want to go after him. He is in no shape to do so and Sherlock can't watch out for him. At least wait until he is better. Please."

 

Q hears the begging undertone and briefly wonders how many things he would beg Bond for right now. Another kiss, touches on naked skin. He licks his lips nervously, noticing how Bond’s gaze follows the movement. It is an arousing sight, but the feeling is lost in the silence that stretches between them. Bond seems to think about their discussion, but his face still betrays no emotion, no sign what he is going to decide.

 

"Okay."

 

The short word startles Q.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Yes, okay. I won’t tell him until he is better.”

 

Bond turns to leave and suddenly the exhaustion slams right in, the turmoil of the last days taking their toll. His knees buckle and he gives in, lets himself fall gracelessly to the floor. He hits his head on the table, but that is just a small battle wound compared to everything else. At least he has bought them time.


	10. The way to hell

One of the great things about London is the fact that you can find an open bar at any time of the day. And since Bond always has too much time on his hands between deployments, he is aware of several possibilities for getting a drink at 4 in the morning. He ends up in a bar in a very posh hotel. Everything is really classy and the best thing about it is that nobody asks questions when he settles at a table.

 

The first burn of the whisky is like a welcome friend, too familiar to provoke any kind of reaction; not even the sweet anticipation of forgetting everything. And he isn’t even sure he wants to forget. The kiss, the argument, the sting. He is aware that Q probably wasn’t even out to hurt him, but was fighting for his brother, his family. Despite his obvious attraction to Bond. He can’t help a smug smile at the memory of glazed eyes behind slightly fogged glasses, wondering how Q would look without them. Wondering what it would take to invoke such fierce loyalty for him.

 

Loyalty – such a beautiful concept. He takes another sip, and the burn isn’t even noticeable any more. He had thought his loyalties were clear. England, of course, in first place. It's been too long for him to remember it any other way. But then? He had never thought about it, never wondered what or whom he would put in second place. Because the question has never arisen, has never been asked. A week ago it would probably have been John. Before John probably M, the old one, the one who'd died in his arms. 

 

And now? Now a computer genius has convinced him to betray a friend. Is it a betrayal? It certainly feels like one. The only problem is it feels the same the other way around. Q’s ties to his family are deeply woven and if Bond is honest with himself he is a little bit jealous. Jealous that the quartermaster has something outside MI6, something he ranks higher than a ‘promising career in espionage’. His family ties were cut the day his parents died, every other connection was slowly worn thin by England. Even the connection to John. He knows they are both the same at the core, that John understands his priorities.

 

But this isn’t a decision between England and John. And it shouldn’t be hard, but he can’t make up his mind, a feeling he is unused to. At least he hasn’t promised to be silent forever, only until John is better. But what then? When John is no longer unconscious in a sick bed, when he is back at Baker Street, surrounded by a living memorial to his friend? Bond likes to believe that he is good for John, that his presence has helped him, but the flat is almost a shrine, the belongings of a dead man still surrounding them.

 

James thinks of the first night, of the strange look on John’s face when he had kissed him, the tears later that night. John had had sex with him, there was no shouting of the wrong name in passion or anything like that, but the initial tenderness hadn’t been for him. This tenderness had been mirrored by the dead man himself in the warehouse during the rescue. Sherlock had risked almost everything to come back, to save his friend. It had been pure luck that he hadn’t been compromised, that John had been unconscious. Is there anyone that would risk anything like that for him?

 

He empties the glass and signals the waiter for another, watching the liquid splashing over ice cubes, letting them clink softly and taking another sip. Unbidden, Q comes to mind again. Q with blazing eyes, defending his brother. How would he look defending Bond? Fuck, why would he want to defend Bond? Why would James want that? God, this is entirely the wrong time for these kinds of questions.

 

With an inward groan he swallows half of his whisky.

 

In his peripheral vision he notices a movement. Immediately all his muscles tense, but when he looks up he doesn’t see a person with a gun. Just a blonde in a tight red dress, accentuating her curves. James relaxes a bit. It is hard to hide a weapon in that kind of dress, although not impossible. But when she leans over the table, offering a nice view of her cleavage and asking if he is interested in some company, he is sure that she is just a bored wife, looking for an adventure.

 

Unwilling to follow his own thoughts any further, he invites her to take a seat. The subtle air of her perfume reaches his nostrils and he slowly gets on board with the idea of helping her to an exciting night in town. There is still lingering arousal from the kiss with Q under his skin, and this is so much easier, so much more casual than anything he could have done with Q.

 

They are both pros at this game, the pretence of just two strangers in a bar sharing a drink, talking about everything and nothing, and the subtle hints of more are only visible for the addressee. The only problem is that James is too used to this game, so used to seduction that he can do it without putting his mind to it. And instead it wanders. He looks over the blond curls and remembers how dark, messy curls felt beneath his fingers. He sees the red lipstick matching her dress and remembers the taste of another set of lush lips. And he gazes over her breasts and suddenly the harshness of a male body enters his mind.

 

He knows he can go through with this, mindlessly using sex as a distraction, even though his interest is disappearing minute by minute. It definitely won’t be the passionate encounter that he could have with Q. And it won’t be the familiar give and take he had shared with John. The longer he chats with this woman, the less interested he is, and when he sees Eve entering the bar to retrieve him, he has to admit that a large part of him is simply relieved.

 

* * *

 

Eve easily navigates them through an awakening London. It is still a little before the early rush-hour, but the kiosks with the newspapers open one by one; the streets are cleaned of the evidence of the night, and from the tube stations come the first passengers of the day.

 

“How is John?”

 

Bond is unsurprised by her concern. She wasn’t a field agent long enough to lose her compassion, and John had always acquired friendships easily. Especially with beautiful women.

 

“He is alive.”

 

Her glare makes him smirk, but he relents and extends his answer.

 

“Still unconscious, a few broken ribs, probably a concussion, bruised from head to toe, but alive.”

 

“Any idea who is behind this?”

 

“No. The men keeping him were hired thugs. And rather uncooperative at the moment. Hopefully we will know more when John wakes up.”

 

“M is not too happy about your lone-wolf mission.”

 

He looks at her, trying to work if there is deeper message.

 

“A word of advice. If M is ever happy with me and how I handle my missions, then something has gone very, very wrong.”

 

“You still think of him as a bureaucrat?” It’s not really a question.

 

“He is one. A desk changes everything, even ex-SAS. And MI6 is something completely different.”

 

They maintain their silence as Eve enters the now familiar doorway to the new headquarters. She waits for the answering call before she opens the door to M’s office. M is sitting behind his desk, flipping through a file. Tanner sits opposite him, another file in his hand. They both look up when Bond enters. The door closes with a soft thud behind him.

 

He is greeted with a simple “007” and a gesture to bring him nearer.

 

“I assume Captain Watson is alive and well.”

 

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”

 

“You will be pleased to hear that MI5 has sent the highest praises for your and Q’s help in their rescue mission. They even officially thanked us.”

 

Bond is pretty sure that his surprise is somewhat visible, but he manages a humble “That’s good to hear, Sir.”

 

“One day I would really like to hear how you managed to make your manhunt an official MI5 mission”. 'You and me both’ thinks Bond. “However,” M continues, “we’ve got a request from the CIA for a follow-up of your joint mission in Colombia. Their agent in the field is still Felix Leiter. He is waiting for you.”

 

Mallory moves forward and hands the file he is holding to Bond.

 

“Here is the file. There are worried about destabilisation of the region and suspect that there is someone helping behind the scenes. They need someone experienced.”

 

Bond looks through the few sheets in the folder. He has seen better reports on Loch Ness, but that’s the CIA for you. Not that he need much more information, the memories are still there and for a moment he wants to decline, doesn’t want to return to ashes and dead bodies and desperation. He can almost smell it again, burnt wood, and cocaine and flesh. Breathing through a handkerchief. He shakes the memories away, takes a deep breath and returns his attention to the data. It is really not much, hopefully Felix will have more information. He glances up at M.

 

“When am I leaving?”

 

“As soon as you are ready. Q branch has everything prepared for you.”

 

The trip to Q branch doesn’t take long. A nervous young man – Bond think his name might be Brian, but he has never bothered to learn the names of the Q branch minions – hands him his travel documentation and his Walther PPK. He is just about to complain half-jokingly about the budget cuts when they tell him that everything else will be delivered to Colombia.

 

It’s Eve again who drives him to the airport. They stop at Baker Street and he collects a few clothes, noting the small envelope pinned to Mrs Hudson’s door. He doesn’t recognise the writing, but he'd bet a substantial sum that the eldest Holmes brother has been here. Although he is tempted he leaves the envelope as it is, just returning to Eve and his journey to Heathrow. Of course his plane is already waiting. Even without Q the technicians work pretty efficiently.

 

Admittedly he feels a bit like a coward, leaving London without any warning. But at least he is not breaking any promises, and judging from the file he will have enough time pondering about the situation in Colombia. Surveillance always leaves you with rather a lot of time on your hands.


	11. Crossed bridges

The cab drives Bond through the London rain. On any other arrival in the city after a mission, there would be something strangely comforting about rain, but right now he really wants to be somewhere dry. He makes a mental note to request his next mission somewhere in a desert, he doesn’t even care which. It feels as if he hadn’t been properly dry in ages, and the dampness of his suit only adds to the discomfort of the dried blood on it.

 

For once the debriefing is already done. Since it was a CIA mission they had invited Bond and Felix to their headquarters for the post-mission reports. He had declined their hospitality and their medical branch intervention, stating that the wounds were merely superficial. Of course he knows that any doctor would disagree with him on this assessment, but he has enough experience in hiding any pain on moving. He wanted to return to England.

 

He is no nearer to a solution than he was at his departure, but the uncertainty is even more troubling than any decision could be. At least than he would have something to fret about. Now he is still torn between two possibilities and the only decision he had come to was to decide on the spot what he would do. Lie to his oldest friend, or keep the secret of a new one. If friend was the right word for his relationship with Q. He hasn’t spoken to Q the whole time he's been away, and he misses the light banter with the quartermaster. Their handler at the CIA was annoyingly businesslike.

 

Baker Street is remarkably quiet, but he immediately spots two surveillance teams and a new addition to the CCTV network. Apparently they hadn’t had any luck finding the person behind John’s abduction. He makes another mental note to request the file; maybe he will find something useful. He also may know a few more tricks about interrogation than Mycroft Holmes, even if he has access to all kind of means. Some things just come with experience. And Bond wouldn’t mind making it an unpleasant experience for the thugs they captured.

 

The cab driver is quickly paid before Bond rings John’s bell, his key still in storage at MI6. He knows that the doctor has left the Holmes mansion – the information came via text from an unknown number as well as regular medical bulletins (if you could call one sentence assessments on somebody’s health so). There is no sound from behind the door before it is opened and he looks into the cautious eyes of his friend. They widen slightly when he glances over Bond’s appearance, certainly picking up the bloodstains.

 

The door opens completely and he is pulled in before it is closed behind him. A bolt is moved silently.

 

“Mycroft’s precautions”, John answers the unvoiced question with a shrug.

 

“He is a bit of an over-achiever, isn’t he.”

 

A strained smile: “The two surveillance teams? Oh yes. At least they aren’t stationed in 221C any more. It’s annoying to have a nightmare and find three agents running up the stairs because they hear you scream in your sleep.”

 

Bond knows enough about nightmares and unexpected entries to interpret the grim line of John’s mouth right.

 

“Anybody dead?”

 

“No. Good reflexes though.”

 

John turns and climbs up the stairs. It is obvious that he expects Bond to follow him.

 

“So you prefer a damaged doctor to the pros in medical branch?”

 

It is also evident that the doctor is still suffering from his injuries. His movements are stiff and too slow for a man of his age and fitness. The remaining bruises on his neck and his arms disappear under his jumper, already yellow and fading. It will take some more time to heal completely, but in the end, John is going to be fine.

 

“You are a pro in medical branch.”

 

John snorts at this.

 

“I guess if I tell you that I’m not cleared fit for duty, it won’t change anything.” It’s not a question but Bond confirms it anyway.

 

“No, it won’t. I still trust you more.”

 

“Right. Okay, sit down, you know the process.”

 

Indeed he does. Medical equipment is gathered, hands are washed. And then he is slowly divested of his clothing, the blood-stained garments simply thrown in the direction of the bathroom.

 

“I can’t believe they let you fly home with this.”

 

John is assessing his wounds, turning the light a bit more towards Bond’s torso.

 

“I told them it was only superficial, I wanted to go home.”

 

John is clearly surprised at this statement, looking up in Bond’s face.

 

“Missing the good weather, I suppose.”

 

“No, left some unfinished business.”

 

“Careful, James. Or I'll think you've become sentimental. After all I convinced myself otherwise. Why else would you have left me to Holmesian care without even a note? Really, that was low.”

 

The complaint is given with a slightly crooked half-smile and James rises to the bait.

 

“Okay, next time I'll just leave you tied to a chair in abandoned warehouse. Then you can complain about Holmesian care. After all they found you.”

 

“Hey, no reason to be so tetchy. I know that you were there too, Ford told me.”

 

“What else did he tell you?” Bond doesn’t even know why he's asking. He knows the answer. Everything about John screams that he doesn’t know.

 

“What should he have told me?”

 

“Nothing, really. We had a bit of a row, you know. I thought he might be complaining to you.”

 

Rule number one when hiding the truth from someone who knows: Staying as close to the truth as possible.

 

“You underestimate the Holmesian dedication to care-taking. I was more pampered by them than by anybody else in my life. Including both our mothers.”

 

He finishes disinfecting a rather nasty cut on Bond’s left shoulder, turning his attention to the right side.

 

“So what was your row about? A lover’s tiff? Or something else?” His voice sounds a bit too casual, but James’ attention is more drawn to the wording.

 

“What do you mean ‘a lover’s tiff’?”

 

“Just a hunch. There is something in Ford’s eyes when he talks about you, not to mention that he blushes slightly. Ah yes, and there is the fact that my nurse told me she saw you two kissing. Making up for the row, she said.”

 

This time the forced casualness actually catches Bond’s attention. He looks over to his friend, meets blue eyes so different from his, reads the hope and the desperation in there.

 

“What else did she tell you?”

 

There is now a tension in the room that wasn’t here before. John bites his lip, darting with his tongue above the dent mark, clearly hesitating over something. He takes a steadying breath and his voice sounds much more confident than his body language indicates.

 

“Is Sherlock all right?”

 

Bond lets his breath out with a huff. He hadn’t even noticed he was holding it.

 

“Sherlock is dead, you told me so. He killed himself in front of you, making you watch.”

 

A sad smile plays around John’s mouth.

 

“Sherlock Holmes is a genius. His elder brother is the British Government, his younger works for MI6. If anyone could fake his own death by jumping from a roof in front of eyewitnesses, it would be him. So tell me, is he all right?”

 

It’s rare that the agent doesn’t know what to say. He still sees the hope and he knows that he could destroy it, that he could lie. But he doesn’t want to. It’s not a scenario he had considered beforehand, and he thinks it is also unlikely that the Holmes brothers thought it possible that John could figure it out on his own. (Or maybe with a little help from nosy nurses.) It’s time to make a decision. His next intake doesn’t seem to get enough air in his lungs, but he can answer.

 

“He was when I saw him last.” Another breath, it is easier now. “Maybe a bit on the thin side, but according to Q it is nothing to worry about.” James watches the relief appearing on John’s face, smoothing out lines that may have not been there for long and adds: “You won’t go after him, will you?”

 

John tenses again. “No, I won’t. At least not right now.”

 

Bond supposes that is more than he could expect. From everything he has learnt, John is not good at not following Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Good. You are not fit enough to chase after a mad genius.”

 

“You may want to be careful here, I’m the one with the scalpel and the medication. Besides, look who is talking. I don’t think you've ever listened to medical advice.”

 

“I sometimes do.”

 

The following snort sounds much lighter than anything he has heard recently, but he has spared any further lecture on this topic.

 

“So will you tell me about him?”

 

“Who? Sherlock?”

 

“Of course, unless you want to give me all the details of your illicit affair with the quartermaster.” John is definitely sounding better, almost like in their university days, carefree, relieved. It helps with Bond’s feeling of guilt, almost outweighing the fact that he hasn’t discussed this with Q before. Although not the topic right now.

 

“I'm not having an affair with the quartermaster.”

 

“Well, you are the one who was kissing him. Now turn around please.”

 

Bond feels John’s fingers on his back, prodding a bit. He turns his head as far as John allows so he can watch which instruments John is choosing, seeing the confidence in every movement. He starts to recount the events of John’s rescue, it seems the right thing to do. Sherlock’s sudden appearance, the talk on the terrace (“You let him smoke!”) and the disappearance from the warehouse. John goes very still behind him, a ragged breath, a murmured “idiot”, but when James wants to turn around he is stopped.

 

“I’m not done here.”

 

The hands return to his back. He thinks he feels a slight tremor at first, but he is probably mistaken. They both stay silent, Bond getting lost in thoughts about secrets and friendships, until he feels John insistently probing at a point on his back.

 

“That’s odd.”

 

“What?”

 

“You have something subcutaneous in your shoulder. Maybe a bone splinter.”

 

That doesn’t make any sense.

 

“A bone splinter? Are you sure?”

 

“No, I’m not.” John’s voice is slightly irritated. “I know your medical file and I know your body. There shouldn’t be anything. Your new collection of wounds doesn’t explain it, and none of your former injuries should have any effect on this part.”

 

“Take it out.”

 

“What do you think I’m doing here?” Definitely irritated now, but the stab of the needle is barely noticeable. They both wait until Bond’s back is numb and he can only feel that somebody is moving at his back, but no actual pain. He stays still until he hears the clatter of something in one of the bowls. His attempt at turning is again prevented by John.

 

“Hold still, I need to stitch you up.”

 

It takes ages until he is allowed to move. John cleans the small object with distilled water, making it clear that they are not looking at bone splinter. It is a tiny metal tube, about the size of a medical pill.

 

“That’s an implant”, John finally says. “I’ve seen them in the medical lab of MI6.”

 

“Why do I have an implant?”


	12. Truth out

Ford walks up Baker Street, passes the two surveillance vans and pretends not to notice when the CCTV camera follows him. Instead of ringing the bell, he uses his keys to unlock the door. The keys are a compromise between an unwilling John who didn’t want to stay at Mycroft’s home any longer than necessary, and Ford who was reluctant the let the doctor out his sight. And not only because John could barely walk.

 

Out of habit he avoids the creaking stair and more or less jumps in front of the door of the upper flat. Not unexpectedly he is greeted with a gun pointed at him. The other gun and the half-naked agent at the kitchen table are more of a surprise. He hadn’t known Bond was back already, he had deliberately avoided any incoming information regarding the joint mission. He can’t help the appreciating look he sends over Bond’s naked torso, frowning a little at the new addition of scars and scratches on slightly tanned skin. His gaze goes upwards to the mouth and the memory of how it felt on his comes to his mind. As if Bond is reading his thoughts, a smug smile appears, and Ford can feel the heat rising in his cheeks.

 

He is quite thankful for John’s interruption, offering a verbal greeting and tea. Never being someone to decline an offer of tea, he follows John in the kitchen. He is about to ask why John has summoned him – just the order to come over, nothing more –, when he notices the bowl and its contents. It’s an implant, one of his first developments for MI6, and there is absolutely no reason why one of those should be in Baker Street.

 

He steps nearer, but doesn’t touch, tries to deduce what little he can about the device. Several ideas come to his mind, but one stands out. One that is quite obvious and makes terrible sense in hindsight.

 

“Where did you find that?”

 

“In my back.” Bond’s answer sounds calm, too calm. Ford turns to him, trying to read  007’s face, but the earlier smirk is long gone and he is presented with the blank stare of a trained field agent.

 

“Why was it in your back?”, he demands. It seems unlikely that Bond would be willing do this to himself, but it would be slightly better than the alternative. Bond’s nonverbal reaction, a quirked eyebrow, which quickly resumes its normal place, quickly ends this route.

 

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

 

“You know what it is?” John joins the conversation, holding out two mugs, obviously not bothered by the sudden tension. “I thought it was an implant, but I’ve only seen them in the medical bay and Andrew pretty much chased me away, so I never got a closer look.”

 

Ford exhales audibly. Ah yes, how did Sherlock always put it: ‘You see, but don’t observe’. Obviously John hadn’t drawn the right conclusions. “You're right, it is an implant, and Bond shouldn’t have one of them in his body.”

 

“What are they for?” John’s voice is still pretty casual, but Ford knows he is being interrogated. Not by an expert, but apparently the doctor had learnt a few things while cooperating with his brother and the police. Or maybe that’s how they teach doctors to interview unwilling patients.

 

“Well, they could be used for many things.” Classic diversion strategy, Ford knows this as well as that he wouldn’t get away with it. “A steady medication for agents who are dependent on scheduled pills. Or just too lazy to take them everyday.”

 

“But that’s not what MI6 uses them for.” A statement, not a fact, but John still doesn’t seem bothered. Warm blue eyes watching him, leaving him wanting to squirm away from the gaze. He glances at Bond, but the agent’s impassive look sends Ford minds off to look for disgust or anger and he quickly returns his attention to John.

 

“No”, Ford admits, this time something like shame tinting his cheeks red, “they are used as interrogation tools.”

 

He can’t resist and looks back at Bond, catching traces of understanding in 007’s eyes. Of course, the agent has seen enough in the field to know about the unpleasant side of a career in espionage. But it is as obvious that John still has some illusions. A questioning eyebrow prompts him to explain further.

 

“They are usually filled with some kind of hallucinogenic.” He gestures helplessly. Warmth turns to distance, uncertainty to acknowledgement. “To keep them anxious, nervous, so they have a harder time resisting the interrogation.”

 

It is clear that John doesn’t like what he is hearing but he doesn’t comment on it; instead he looks pensively at the bowl with the small implant. Ford watches him, as does Bond, apparently both a bit lost for words.

 

“The agent you wanted me to investigate – it’s Bond, isn’t it?” The question catches Ford by surprise. He nods slowly. “What are you thinking?”

 

“They were always asking ‘who hired you?’. They weren’t asking for security details, only ‘who hired you?’” John looks back at Ford, anger darkening his features.

 

Ford’s breath catches as more pieces of the puzzle fall together. It seems Bond follows as quickly. “After you came to MI6, I always went to you. Nobody else had access to my body.” An unfortunate wording because now Ford has to suppress the thought exactly how much access John had to said body.

 

With a grim face John confirms: “Nobody could change the implant and they certainly couldn’t involve me. Had to get me out of the way.” He turns to Ford. “And it would explain the mood swings you were describing.”

 

“Mood swings?” Bond sounds appalled. Ford can feel another wave of heat tinting his cheeks.

 

“Being irritable, swearing, that kind of thing.” Thankfully Bond only looks at him for a minute before he returns to the main point.

 

“So someone from medical wants Bond … what?” It’s John who voices their conclusions. “Not at his best? Killed? Why this much effort for something that could happen anyway?”

 

“Hey”, Bond’s protest is waved away with an impatient hand gesture.

 

“Well, we will definitely ask them, after we have found them. It shouldn’t take long, we only have a limited pool of suspects.” Ford cringes a bit inwardly at how much he just sounded like Mycroft. That’s probably why Bond’s next statement surprises him this much.

 

“I think I know who it is.”

 

“You know? Who?”

 

“Andrew Scotsdale.”

 

“Andrew? Are you sure?” It’s hard to imagine the old doctor as someone who would deliberately mess with an agent’s body chemistry. Especially when he is always presented with the fragility of an agent’s body.

 

“He knew Silva.”

 

“Fuck.” The swearing comes from John, but it sums up Ford’s feelings pretty well. It also spares him the explanation about Silva’s attack on MI6 and M and his own stupid mistakes. Obviously Bond has shared some of his past with John. 

 

“Yes.”

 

For a moment they all contemplate the implications of this suspicion. A doctor at MI6 gone rogue. Q doesn’t need a profound knowledge of human anatomy to know that a doctor can cause much more harm on a personal level than he would do. And maybe even more than Bond is capable of. Someone who is trained to heal must know how things can go bad to reverse the proceedings. Ford looks at Bond and yes, it is clear that the agent thinks along similar lines.

 

“What are we going to do now?” It’s John who disrupts the silent understanding between Q and Bond.

 

Bond sums it up: “He's been at MI6 longer than all of us. We need solid proof, preferably a confession.”

 

“Yeah, right.” John scratches his head. “Any idea how we get the proof?”

 

“Do you still have Sherlock’s old chemistry equipment?” Ford asks.

 

“Yes, why?”

 

“Well, we have some evidence we can analyse. And we need to call Mycroft.”

 

John sighs. “Do you think you will find anything in the implant? I mean it’s been in James’ body for some time, and then in distilled water. I would think any possible evidence is washed away. And why on earth do we need to call Mycroft?”

 

It’s now Ford turn to sigh; he can see Bond rolling his eyes at their reactions.

 

“I am not as good a chemist as Sherlock, but I know my way around chemical analyses. There might be still some traces of the used substances.” As an afterthought he adds: “And maybe we can find something on the implant. Probably not finger prints, but the serial number could be helpful as well. After all, the use of those implants must be documented.”

 

“That doesn’t explain Mycroft.” John grumbles as he leaves the kitchen, probably to get the chemistry equipment from wherever he had stored it. Ford waits for his return and continues his explanation while unpacking the set of glass flasks.

 

“If it’s really Andrew, and if it has something to do with Silva, he will probably monitor any data from within MI6, especially yours and Bond’s. Maybe mine too. That’s why we need someone from the outside who has his own files on MI6.”

 

When Ford looks up he sees John staring at him with big eyes. “You are telling me that Mycroft has his own copy of everybody’s files in MI6.”

 

“Oh, I don’t think he has everybody’s files, only those he finds useful, or who may come into contact with me and you.”

 

John shakes his head disbelievingly and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like “oh, only those” when he leaves the kitchen to get his phone, but Ford’s attention is diverted by the amused gleam in Bond’s eyes. Should an agent not be worried that someone out of MI6 had access to his files?

 

“Your family is really something. You are the quartermaster of MI6 and could probably hack anything, your brother, well I’m not quite sure what your brother does, but he probably has access to every file in England, and not to forget your dead brother who is trying to destroy a criminal network.”

 

Ford glances nervously in the living room where John is currently talking to his brother before returning his attention to Bond. “Ssshh.”

 

Bond only smiles fleetingly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t told him and I won’t tell him.”

 

“Well then, stop being so careless.” He glares at Bond for good measure, although he fears that it won’t have much effect on the agent.

 

“Mycroft will be here soon.” John returns from the living room and apparently notices the tension. “Everything alright?”

 

“Yes, yes”, Ford assures him, “007 is just being funny.”

 

John looks between them for a moment before simply shrugging and turning to the kettle. “Tea?”

 

Mycroft arrives about twenty minutes later and to everybody’s surprise he has brought M with him. From the kitchen table where Ford has been perched over the whole time and watched by two pairs of blue eyes, he can’t read their body language. But it is evident that M knows at least the major points of this whole affair when he comes into the kitchen, frowning slightly at the makeshift laboratory at the table, but doesn’t comment on it.

 

Instead he asks calmly as if it was a normal day at the office: “Found anything, quartermaster?”

 

A part of him wants to analyse the question, the wording, the pitch. The other part is simply reluctant to admit defeat.

 

“I’ve found the serial number of the implant, but with the equipment at hand I’m not able to analyse the substance to which 007 was subjected. I assume it’s the usual mixture, as standardized in protocol 23 d, but without better equipment I can’t prove it.” Ford knows that he is blathering, but he can’t help it. It always makes him nervous when somebody is there to judge his work.

 

“We can always compare the serial number you’ve found” and with this M extends his hand waiting for Q to give him the paper where he scribbled the numbers down, “with the official database.” M frowns a little in concentration as he accesses his tablet, his eyes flickering between monitor and the note.  “And you might be interested to learn that Dr. Andrew Scotsdale not only knew Silva from his time at MI6, but even before that. They were in the same orphanage as children.”

 

“This means?”, Bond enters the kitchen and the conversation, not gaining a glance from M whose eyes are trained on his tablet.

 

“This means that we have enough reason to suspect Dr. Scotsdale of treason, especially since the implant with this serial number was reported destroyed by him.”


	13. Laying down the king

“I really don’t like the idea of using John as bait. He is barely healed. Look, he's still limping.”

 

Dutifully Bond looks at the screen where John is indeed limping beside M, through the corridors of MI6, heading towards the medical department. He is waiting with Q in the quartermaster’s office, under strict instructions to simply observe. M doesn’t think it’s a good idea to have a trained agent with a personal agenda facing a possible traitor.

 

Bond has to admit that there might be some truth in M’s assessment. Or quite a lot. In his line of work he needs to know what to expect from those back home. The old M’s decision to command Eve to shoot him had been unpleasant, but not a surprise. He has no illusions about his value for MI6. A skilled assassin. Replaceable if necessary. It’s easy enough to understand, clear distinctive lines. He can live with that, but he needs to know that he can trust everybody, at least to a certain degree. Can trust them not to drug him. And not to kidnap and torture the very few friends he still has.

 

Like Q he is not entirely happy with the situation, but that has almost nothing to do with doubting John’s abilities but more with his own need for control. Since there is nothing else he can do at the moment, he enjoys watching Q moving through his office, adjusting cables and connections. They are alone for the first time without anyone in hearing distance since their shared kiss and judging from the looks Q had given him earlier, neither has forgotten it. The quartermaster really looks quite young when he blushes. Bond is tempted to make him blush again, but it might take some time to get Q in the right mood, since the other man is still decidedly unhappy with the situation, listing each and every reason why this is a bad idea. Bond is pretty sure he is just expected to listen to the diatribe.

 

“He is a civilian; he wasn’t trained for underground missions.”

 

Bond doesn’t point out the career in the army wasn’t exactly confined to the medical tents. He also doesn’t mention that technically John is a member of MI6 and therefore not a civilian.

 

“He shouldn’t be alone with someone who wanted to kill him, that’s not safe.”

 

Again Bond keeps his silence, and doesn't explain that it might be not the worst idea if John could face his abductor in a direct fight, nor that the doctor’s lifestyle before MI6 wasn’t safe either.

 

“John is a terrible liar. Why do you think we don’t tell him about Sherlock?”

 

Ah yes, the reminder why everything is so complicated. And this time he can’t keep his silence.

 

“I think he is a better liar than you give him credit for.”

 

That earns him a sharp look and a wary question.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Bond hesitates, but since he has already said that much, he could go the whole way. And he prefers to keep the secrets on the professional side of his life.

 

“He knows about Sherlock.” For a moment he watches the shock. “I think you didn’t realise that.” Bond allows some smugness in his voice.

 

“How? Did you tell him?” Q comes nearer, his motions now determined, not the absent meddling through his office from before.

 

“No, I didn’t, I told you so. He guessed. Or rather, he learned from your nurse”, he concedes. “We haven’t been very discreet.”

 

The sharp look doesn’t change. “And how did he react?”

 

“He asked if Sherlock was all right, and promised me that he won’t go after him until he is completely healed.”

 

Q stares for a moment longer before he lets himself drop into the chair beside Bond.

 

“So he knows how to keep a secret. I still don’t like it. It is one of your insane plans and once again I’m in the middle of it. You know that I had plans for a long career in MI6?”

 

It’s probably a bad sign that he finds Q's objections quite endearing.

 

“I really don’t know what you are complaining about. I’m having a long career at MI6, so my plans can’t be this bad.” That earns him a dark look and Bond chuckles. “Relax, Q, everything will be fine. What could happen? We are close by, M will be outside the medical bay, everything is monitored and John is armed. What could possibly go wrong?”

 

Bond’s amusement turns into a broad grin as he watches Q’s reaction. The younger man throws his arms in the air and then points at Bond.

 

“What could possibly go wrong? Andrew Scotsdale has worked for MI6 since the 1980s and he is now plotting revenge for some reason. So allow me to question his mental stability and I’m not so sure that he will stay calm once he realises why your lover is really there.”

 

Lover? Since when were they referring to John as his lover?

 

“John is not my lover. We are friends, or brothers in arms.” Bond clarifies. Really, lover seems the wrong word for his relationship with John. The sex is really not that important, it’s just a pleasant by-product, as are John’s medical abilities and his steady hand with a gun.

 

“But you did sleep with him.”

 

Maybe it is a bit fuzzy as a distinction, he admits.

 

“Okay, friends with occasional benefits. But that was just a therapeutic measure.”

 

That’s also not quite true, but at the moment it seems important that there were no emotions involved. Well none beyond caring for a friend.

 

“I know about your therapeutic measures, I’ve read your file.”

 

Bond is surprised by the slight bitterness he hears in Q’s voice. Judging from Q’s look he is, too. He tries to explain.

 

“You shouldn’t take things that happen on a mission too seriously. It’s just what has to be done to solve a problem.”

 

“And which problem did you solve with John?”

 

The bitterness is still there, so Bond tries another approach.

 

“Why are you so interested in me and John?”

 

He watches Q pressing his lips together as if he doesn’t want to let words slip out. The silence grows, as does the tension in the body next to him. Bond waits, but eventually the quartermaster just turns his attention to the monitor in front of them. It is clear that he won’t say anything further, so Bond does the same.

 

On the screen they see John entering medical, officially to pack his things. The doctor limps to his desk, puts down the box he has brought with him and starts opening his drawers. As expected, this gets Andrew’s attention and he comes closer. The conversation goes almost as planned, John explains his retirement due to his injuries and Andrew offers sympathy.

 

“It just seems strange for you to have such a close relationship with someone.”

 

Q’s sudden statement gets Bond’s attention. He turns his head to look, but the quartermaster refuses to do the same. Instead he is still paying attention to the screen, where John is now taking out the implant to show it Andrew. They can’t see Andrew’s reaction properly from this angle, so Q bends slightly forward and chooses another camera. The view of John is transferred to a second monitor. Bond turns slightly, so he can watch the monitors and Q at the same time.

 

“I’ve known John my whole life”, he explains carefully. “Before my parents died and way before MI6. We have a similar history, a similar background. We both chose a military career; we both have nightmares about it. I’m a trained killer. You know as well as I do that John is also capable of killing. In some ways we are the same, and life has taught us to watch out for our needs. And John needed human comfort after what your brother did to him. And maybe”, the agent hesitates for a moment (because opening up like this hasn’t always been a wise choice in the past), “and maybe I needed it too.”

 

Q still stares at the screen in front of him, and refuses to acknowledge Bond's words. The only visible reaction is a heavy swallow. Bond can see his Adam’s apple moving. He wants to add something more, to make Q understand, that John and he are bound by their childhood and now by their loneliness. But words escape him and maybe Q has already understood and he focuses on what’s happening between John and Scotsdale.

 

It is obvious that Andrew is still unsure what to make of the situation. He wants to know where John found the implant, and manages to look surprised at John’s answer.

 

“You don’t need to explain it to me.”

 

Q sounds defeated and Bond can’t help the glance at him, although the situation on the screen is getting more and more interesting. John confronts Scotsdale and over the cold anger in John’s voice, Bond answers.

 

“I rather think I do.” He looks at Q and decides to jump. “To be frank, I am interested in you and I would take you to bed if that’s what you want. I would even go as far as saying it’s a romantic interest.

But I’m not relationship material. John and me worked because we had no expectations, we just needed the company. I’m a trained killer. Trust is something that comes pretty hard for me. Hell, I don’t even know why I trust you. I am getting old and chances are that my next mission will be my last. Every time it takes longer for me to recover. So, is there any other reason why you are interested in my relationship with John? And don’t tell me this is about your brother.”

 

This time Q reacts quickly, moving his attention from the screens to Bond. Their eyes meet and for a moment the world seems to stand still. The cynical side of him is pointing out the romantic clichés pretty quickly, but he ignores it, and waits for Q to actually say something. Or do something. He is open to both options. Q’s tongue comes out and wets his lips and Bond tracks it, wants to chase it with his mouth.

 

He lifts his eyes back to Q’s, noting the dilation of pupils, and smiles. Q sounds pretty husky when he finally speaks.

 

“It’s not about my brother.”

 

Bond can’t resist the huskiness and the eyes and raises his hands to trace over Q’s cheekbones.

 

“So what do you want from me?”

 

Seconds turn to eternities.

 

“I haven’t decided yet.”

 

Bond grins. There are not many people that can surprise him. He traces Q’s lips with his fingers, learning the softness and the hint of humidity, and allows the slight shiver to be visible when Q’s breath ghosts over his index finger. The mouth beneath his finger opens further and Bond is tempted to seal it with a kiss, but he just takes his finger away and turns to the screen, where Andrew Scotsdale is being taken into custody by M.


	14. Sweet surrender

The next weeks are insanely busy for Q. MI6 goes through an internal cleansing process, everybody associated with Scotsdale who might have connections with Silva is questioned, and for some insane reason Q is the head of operations. Ford suspects it is an unsubtle sanction for his solo activity and smuggling in an outsider for his own investigations, but he can’t feel guilty about that. Not when the result maybe something like a relationship with Bond.

 

They haven’t had a chance to speak in private since Scotsdale’s arrest. Instead Bond has been sent on a mission to Eastern Europe. The way he had been acting around and looking at Q had earned them an amused smile from Eve, and some raised eyebrows from John. Although Q thinks he might have held up professional appearances on his end.

 

Quite contrary to his usual style, Bond managed to finish the mission without resorting to violence, and is on his way back. Nervous anticipation tingles in Q and it has nothing to do with the fact that for the first time he might even get all of his equipment back. He confirms Bond’s flight schedule one last time, before he leaves Q branch. And he is probably imagining Eve’s knowing smile when he wishes her a pleasant weekend on his way out. At her cheery ‘the same to you’ he attempts a scowl, but fails miserably. He hopes indeed for a very pleasant weekend.

 

* * *

 

His flat is quiet. Not that he expected otherwise, but the contrast between the constant low buzz in Q branch and his flat (where only one pc is running) is always refreshing. He is undecided whether to work a little more on the programmes he is currently developing, or play in a virtual world to kill the time, but in the end the decision is taken from him.

 

The knock on his door seems characteristic for Bond, although he hasn’t heard him knock before. He opens the door and finds the agent leaning against the wall, clad in a dark suit, hands in his pockets.

 

“Have you decided yet?”

 

It doesn’t really sound like a question and Q can’t help the smile that spreads over his face, which is promptly stopped by hungry lips. Bond walks him back in his apartment. He senses more than anything that Bond kicks the door closed, too occupied with the taste of Bond's tongue and exploring the agent's mouth. Their progress is halted by the sofa and without letting go they manage to lie down together, Bond's weight a helpful distraction because suddenly Ford remembers he can move the hands that had been gripping James's shoulders.

 

He slides them under the jacket, exploring the warm muscles underneath the grey silk shirt. Soon the jacket is restricting his explorations and James shrugs it off, returning his attention to Q's neck and his jaw, licking and nibbling and tearing Ford's cardigan. It is one of Q's favourites, but he doesn't mind at the moment, concentrating on getting his fingers through the fastenings of Bond's shirt to touch skin.

 

The small touch is not enough and impatiently he tears at the buttons, revealing more skin, tanned and delicious-looking, and Q has to taste. He pulls his head away from Bond's ministrations and manoeuvres himself into a position where he can lick a broad stripe. The taste is overwhelming and the answering groan even better. Bond grabs his neck and directs Q's mouth back onto his, and for a moment he feels a little bit dumbfounded by the possibilities; exploring this kissable mouth or tasting more of skin?

 

In the end it's a compromise of a wet play of teeth and tongue and lips and exploring with his hands, although he gets less and less co-ordinated with James sucking at his lower lip, and pinching his right nipple slightly. Q arches into the touch. The movement brings their groins together and this time they both groan at the friction. Bond follows his movements, grinding his hips against Q's pelvis.

 

They are both panting into each other's mouths now, eyes locked almost helplessly, blown with desire. Q closes the gap between them and as if on cue they both move their hands to their belts. Hands are in the way, so Q gives up and returns his attention to Bond's chest, following the path of his neck, leaving little bites on the prominent collarbone. Then Bond slides his hand into Q's pants. The calloused hand on his cock short circuits Q's brain, and his moan is muffled by Bond's shoulder.

 

Bond's movements are restricted by the remains of his clothing, but Q moves his hips in the maddening slow rhythm Bond has set, helplessly clinging to Bond's shoulders and managing nothing more than panting into the agent's neck. He feels orgasm approaching and it is too fast and not fast enough but he somehow manages to lift his head from the smooth skin under his mouth and breathe "Stop".

 

The movement stops, and although it is what he wanted, he can’t swallow the disappointed groan. Ice  blue eyes study him, questioning, and Q feels himself flush, although he hopes that it is hidden by the heat of arousal. "I want to come with you inside me."

 

Bond raises one eyebrow, but he sounds as breathless as Q when he groans his ‘yes’. He kisses Q again, not quite as heated as before, slightly more calming, and Q finds in himself some more control to pull away and murmur "Bedroom". Bond hums in agreement before he grabs Q's arse and lifts him slightly. Q gets the hint and winds his legs around Bond's hips, letting himself being carried. It's not a bad fate, he can easily reach Bond's mouth and he takes advantage of it.

 

Astonishingly they make it to the bedroom without accident. Q fully expects to be laid down again – nothing he would complain about –, but Bond simply sits down on the bed with Q on his lap, snatching his mouth from Q's and asks in a husky voice that sends shivers over Q's spine "What do you want?". Which is a bit unfair because the possibilities are endless and how could he choose one when his brain is nowhere near its best?

 

But the position brings Bond's hardness very close to Q's arse and he can't resist the urge to circle his hips and grind against the erection in the well cut trousers. He reaches down for Bond's belt again, and this time he is allowed to open the fly and get his hands on the hardened flesh. He pulls the pants down, letting the cock bob free and starts stroking it, carefully first but encouraged by Bond's ragged breathing with a tighter grip, sliding his fingers over the head and slit where precome is leaking. He can't resist taking his fingers in his mouth, tasting it, and he wants to have Bond’s cock in his mouth and devour it, but James’ head against his shoulder and his hands on his back don't leave much room for movement.

 

Instead he decides to free his own cock, bringing the two heads together and the feel of the silky skin on him leaves him breathless. Bond guides his mouth back to his but it is not a real kiss. They move their lips and sometimes reach out with their tongues but technically it is shared breathing, amplified by the close contact of their cocks.

 

Bond has his hands in Q's pants, grabbing his arse, squeezing it and bringing their groins closer together so that Q can take them both in his hand and strokes them at the same time.

 

"You might want to go slow if you are still planning on getting fucked."

 

For a moment Q is tempted to just finish them both off, living in the moment, but he wants to explore the toned body. He lets go of their cocks and shoves Bond back on the bed. The agent looks surprised for a moment, but when Q lifts his hips so that he is kneeling above him, with no point of contact, he scrambles backwards and positions himself on the middle of the bed. It should look ridiculous, but he does it with the grace of a big cat, elegant with barely veiled power.

 

Q takes a moment to savour the look of Bond with his open shirt and unfastened trousers, a breath-taking erection poking out. He follows him and pulls on the trousers to get the man naked, to see all that glorious flesh. Bond obligingly arches his back, toes off his shoes and socks and Q is faced with another decision that seems too complex for the moment: where to start.

 

His sense of practicality wins out. He divests himself of his own clothing, his movement followed by hungry blue eyes. He grabs the lube and the condoms and climbs back on the bed, settling again on Bond’s lap, catching the hand that had started stroking his cock. He captures the other hand too, privately amazed that Bond allows this degree of control, and presses them against the headboard.

 

“Don’t move.”

 

Bond closes his fists around the headboard obediently and Ford slowly bends forward, barely touching James' mouth and nibbling at his jaw, taking the path down a neck that slowly becomes familiar. The man beneath him moves slightly, giving him more access, and Q takes advantage of all this exposed skin. His hands join his explorations as he slowly moves downwards, indulging in the taste and feel of Bond’s skin.

 

He feels his own arousal rising with every throaty moan he elicits, with every ‘accidental’ brush of skin against cock and he is not very disappointed when Bond stops his discoveries before he can taste the cock in front of him.

 

“Another time.”

 

The husky promise sends a shiver down his spine and he lets himself be manhandled back to Bond's eye level, catching his mouth in a kiss. He is only vaguely aware of James’ movements, too caught up in the heated exchange of tongues and teeth and lips, but Bond sliding a lubed finger down his crack, circling his hole, gets his attention and he breaks away.

 

Bond breaches his body and for a moment their eyes meet, before the sensations become too much and he rests his head on Bond’s shoulder, breathing the musky scent of skin whose taste still lingers in his mouth, and feeling the delicious stretch. He is glad that he doesn’t need much preparation, something that Bond also discovers very soon, and it doesn’t take long before James directs Q's body above his cock, aligning himself.

 

Slowly, so very, very slowly, he is entered. When he is fully seated he lifts his head to stare in wonder at Bond, taking in the slightly glazed look and unable to resist the need to catch the moan from Bond’s lips. He begins to move, also very slowly, in the lazy rhythm of their tongues. The rhythm is lost when he slightly arches his back and Bond hits that one spot.

 

Bond takes over control, cradles his arse and lays him on his back, before starting to move in earnest, hitting his prostate with every thrust. Soon all Q can think is ‘harder’ and ‘faster’ and he is distantly aware of shouting those orders, clutching his fingers to Bond’s back and then he comes, overwhelmed by sensations. The man above him, in him, follows soon and it takes a while before his breathing slows down and he feels the sweat cooling on his skin while closing his arms around Bond.

 

* * *

 

“Have you decided yet?”

 

It’s the following morning, and Q sends a confused look over his teacup at Bond, still clad only in his trousers, and holding a matching cup in his hand. They had started their morning with slow kisses, a mutual handjob in the shower, and somehow made it into Q’s kitchen, now sitting at the counter sharing toast and tea.

 

Bond grins at him before he explains further: “I interrupted you yesterday.”

 

Q puts his cup down, extends his hand to capture Bond’s neck and brings the agent close. After a short kiss, he just states: “I want you as long as I can have you.”

 

“Okay.” A simple confirmation, sealed with another kiss and they both return to their teas, smiling slightly at each other.


End file.
